





1 


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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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BY 



mttb a SFietcb ot Her %itc 

BY 

mmcbester Iball 







LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two eopies Received 

DEC 26 1905 

Copyriffht Entry 
cuss O^ XXc. No, 






Copyright, 1905. 



WINCHESTER HALL. 



All Rights Reserved. 



PREFACE. 

The reason for assuming to prepare an edition 
of Mary Bayard Clarke's poems and a sketch of 
her life, may be gathered from the following para- 
graph in a letter to the undersigned, dated July 
12, 1861 : 

"There is one thing I have often tried to ask 
you in my letters, to promise me you will do for 
me ; but I have a strange reticence that often pre- 
vents my saying what I long to say, and I never 
could get up my courage before to ask you to be 
my literary executor. 

"The war has stopped the publication of a 
volume of poems and perhaps it will not, in my 
lifetime, see the light; if not, the MSS. will be 
found sealed and directed to you, with many 
other poems which I do not care to publish my- 
self ; but which I leave to you to do with as you 
choose. I may live many years, but as I can 
never be well again, and as I have no settled 
home, I feel as if I should like to have some 
things understood." 

It may be mentioned that to this request there 
was added, after her death, the wish of her chil- 
dren and their proferred aid and sympathy in 
the undertaking. 



iv Preface. 

While I have assurance the poems will take 
more than an ephemeral place in American song, 
I have misgivings that in the sketch of her life 
I have not entirely succeeded in conveying to the 
mind of the reader, a photographic impress of a 
life in which domestic duties were fulfilled 
thoroughly, and with rare self-abnegation — 
which was essentially a life of labor amid much 
privation, and long years of ill-health, all borne 
with patient resignation ; a life enriched with 
varied and extensive readings and researches in 
languages, literature, and science, yet unobtrusive 
of its attainments, and liberal and unassuming 
in its opinions. 

Winchester Hall. 

PocoMOKE City, Maryland, 
August, 1905. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGB 

Mary Bayard Clarke vil 

The Triumph of Spring 31 

The Fairies' Dance 40 

Shadows 45 

The Rain upon the Hills 47 

Nuptial Hymn of the Greeks 49 

Aphrodite 52 

Annie Carter Lee 56 

The Water-Sprite's Bridal 58 

Stonewall's Resignation 67 

The Rebel Sock 69 

The Tenth of May, 1866 73 

The Chimes of St. Paul's 75 

The Stratagems of Love ^7 

I Wish to Love Thee 79 

Cross and Crown 81 

In Memoriam 82 

Clytie and Zenobia 83 

Notes for Clytie and Zenobia 121 

The Organ 125 

The Guard Around the Tomb 129 

Oremus 130 

A Legend of St. Augustine 132 

Tidal Bells ...I34 

Cleopatra's Soliloquy 136 



vi Contents. 

PAGE 

Thanksgiving Psalm 141 

Resurgam 143 

Through Doubt to Light 145 

Under the Lava 148 

The Crown Imperial 152 

\ De Profundis 155 

Truth 156 

Onward 158 

Exegesis 160 

What is Religion? 162 

John Wesley's Foot-print 165 

He of Prayer 167 

The Highest Truth 169 

Matter 170 

The Prophet's Wonder Staff 172 

The Magic Ring 176 

Hermes' Ear 178 

The Law and the Gospel 180 

A Legend of St. Christopher 182 

"The Happy Valley 186 

Thoughts 189 

The Heart of Jesus 191 

Dux Foemina Facti 192 



MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 

When we consider the physical beauty of the 
world which lies hidden in the untrodden wilder- 
ness, on mountain ranges, down sequestered 
valleys; or the spiritual beauty sheltered in lowly 
cottage, ancient hall, and in the unsunned depths 
of human hearts; it seems a part of our nature 
to seek to bring one or the other to light and ob- 
servation, in order it may gladden and cheer and 
reflect its charms on sympathetic hearts. So, in 
the region of song, when, deft fingers have swept 
the chords, and we become possessed with the 
melody of the strain, the impulse is to have some 
one share with us a pleasure, that does not seem 
entirely our own, until it is another's. 

The name of Mary Bayard Clarke is known, 
in her native South, to a limited and appreciative 
circle of readers and friends. In seeking to en- 
large that circle, it is hoped that her memory will 
not only be maintained in its freshness, among 
those familiar with her writings, but gratify all 
those who are interested in the literature of our 
country, and the lovers of the beautiful in senti- 
ment, and of the elevated in thought. 

In the year 1847 it was the good fortune of the 
writer to meet Mary Bayard Devereux at Leigh- 
ton, the home of the Right Rev. Leonidas Polk, 
of Louisiana, where she was making a visit to 



viii Mary Bayard Clarke. 

Mrs. Polk, her father's sister. She was appar- 
ently, twenty years of age, of medium height; 
spare, but well shaped ; brown hair, a fair com- 
plexion, ears small and well set in the head, an 
oval face, a Grecian nose, mouth long, but not no- 
ticeably so, well shaped lips, and speaking eyes of 
bluish-grey. With a countenance all aglow with 
the beauty of maidenhood, a grace of manner 
that bore witness of her gentle birth, and a kind- 
ness of heart that responded to every appeal to 
her nature, she had colloquial powers that showed 
judicious cultivation, and a fancy that seemed 
born of a dream of midsummer night, and often 
burst into song. 

Mary Bayard Devereux on her father's side 
was a descendant of Thomas PoUok, who mi- 
grated from Scotland to the colony of North 
Carolina in the year 1683, and was the leading 
colonist for a number of years. He received a 
grant of land from King Charles the Second, 
portions of which, on the Roanoke river, re- 
mained in the possession of his descendants until 
about the year 1865. 

Thomas Pollok, a grandson of the above 
Thomas Pollok, married Eunice Edwards, a 
daughter of the Rev. Jonathan Edwards, of 
theologic fame. One of the children of this 
marriage was Frances Pollok, who married John 
Devereux, of New Berne, N. C, the son of John 
Devereux, an Irish gentleman of White Church, 
in the County of Wexford, Ireland. 

Thomas Pollok Devereux, one of the children 
of the latter marriage, espoused Katharine Anne 



Mary Bayard Clarke. ix 

Johnson, who was a great-granddaughter of Dr. 
Samuel Johnson, first president of King's, now 
Columbia College, in the City of New York. The 
subject of this memoir was one of the children 
of this marriage, and was born in Raleigh, May 
13, 1827. She was deprived of the advantage 
of a mother's influence, as her mother died while 
she was a child, but the social position of her 
father as a gentleman of landed estate, and an 
eminent lawyer, gave to her all the benefit asso- 
ciation and education could bestow. Her natural 
endowments responded to educational training. 
She developed early a decided turn for letters, 
and soon was acquainted with French, Spanish 
and German literature, as well as that of her 
mother-tongue. She quickly learned to express 
her thoughts with unobtrusive yet ready wit in 
conversation, and to write her sentiments with 
Ariel-like sweetness and spirit. 

In 1848 William J. Clarke, a young captain in 
the war with Mexico, arrived at Leighton. He 
had been a playmate of Mary Bayard in Raleigh, 
and the amity of childhood in time had grown 
to a stronger feeling, which resulted in a be- 
trothal prior to his joining the army. Fresh from 
the battlefields of Mexico, with scars which 
showed his service, and promoted to the rank of 
Major for gallantry, he had now come to claim 
his betrothed. They were married at Leighton on 
April 6th, of that year, by her uncle, the Bishop 
of Louisiana, and soon returned to Raleigh, 
where Major Clarke resumed the practice of 
law, which he had temporarily abandoned for the 



X Mary Bayard Clarke. 

army; and he was for some time auditor of the 
State of North CaroHna. 

Mrs. Clarke, physically, was of a feeble tem- 
perament, although her face bore no indication 
of it in early life, and the climate of Raleigh 
gradually developed unfavorable influences upon 
her health. She passed the winter of 1854-55 
in Cuba. The air strengthened her, and it may 
be assured the enchantment of this beauteous isle 
was fully appreciated during the visit ; an incident 
of which she related to the writer in a letter of 
that time : 

"I did not expect to be more than two days in 
Matanzas, and only took a small portion of my 
wardrobe, otherwise I should have been tempted 
to prolong my stay indefinitely. I had left my 
riding dress in Havana, and when I was told I 
should lose half the beauties of the trip if I did 
not go on horseback had to set my wits to work 
to improvise a skirt for the occasion ; fortunately 
I had a large shawl with me which ten minutes* 
sewing converted into a skirt of the most brilliant 
description ; large plaids of orange and blue pre- 
dominated, which with a black silk basque, and 
a panama hat, rendered my costume unique to 
say the least. My steed was a Creole pony, of 
such small dimensions that when I was mounted 
I could only compare myself to Tripaolemus Yel- 
lowby in 'The Pirate,' who entirely hid his Shet- 
land pony with the ample folds of his Sunday 
cloak, and was obliged to hold up his knees to 
keep his feet off the ground. We ascended the 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xi 

ridge on the side next the sea, and came back 
through the valley; when we reached the top we 
had a view of both that surpassed anything I 
ever saw before ; on one hand far below us, lay 
the beautiful Bay of Matanzas, its blue waters 
dotted over with ships, which, in the distance, 
seemed no larger than fishing-craft, while on the 
other we looked down into the Valley of the 
Youmori, covered with its yellow-green cane, 
interspersed with large white sugar houses, that 
a little imagination might, when viewed from that 
height, convert into elegant country places, sur- 
rounded with stately palms, lifting their feathery 
crown above all other trees. As we came down 
the mountain I was reminded of the Happy Val- 
ley where Rasselas dwelt, for without wings 
escape seemed impossible ; the road by which we 
descended was hidden by the trees, and the only 
break in the hills, through which the river flowed 
out, was not visible from where we stood." 

One who saw her frequently during her visit 
to Cuba, said of her : 

Sprightly, intellectual, and remarkable, not 
only for her easy, graceful manners, but her deli- 
cate, fragile beauty, she was the acknowledged 
queen ol society in the circle in which she moved. 
The Spanish Creoles are very frank in their ad- 
mriation of beauty, which they regard as the gift 
of God, not only to the possessor, but to the 
admirer of it; and nothing Uke the furore created 
among them, by the blue eyes, fair complexion, 
masses of soft, sunny curls, and clear-cut, intel- 



xii Mary Bayard Clarke. 

lectual features of this lady, can be conceived of 
in this country. The first time I ever saw her 
w^as at the Tacon theatre. She v^as leaning on 
the arm of Mr. Gales Seyton, of The National 
Intelligencer, and surrounded by three or four 
British naval officers, in full uniform, and, as 
the party walked into the private box of the 
Spanish Admiral, every eye was turned on them, 
and a hum of admiration rose from the specta- 
tors such as could only be heard in similar cir- 
cumstances from a Spanish audience. Shortly 
after this I met her at a ball given by the British 
Consul General, in the Aldamer palace, and was 
presented to her by Mr. Seyton, and from that 
time saw her almost daily for four months, dur- 
ing which she reigned the acknowledged queen 
of the small but select society of English and 
Americans residing in the City of Havana, in- 
creased, as it is every winter by visitors from all 
parts of the United States, English, American, 
and French naval officers, and such foreigners as 
speak English. A more brilliant circle than it 
was that winter it would be hard to find any- 
where. But while to casual observers Mrs. 
Clarke was but the enfant gate of society, to 
those who looked further she was also the highly 
cultivated and intellectual woman. The Honor- 
able Miss Murray, then on her American tour, 
was charmed with her, and said she was the only 
woman she had met in America who, without 
being a blue-stocking, was yet thoroughly edu- 
cated, "She has not an accomplishment," said 
that lady, ''beyond her highly cultivated conver- 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xlii 

sational powers, but they, with her beauty and 
graceful manners, would render her an orna- 
ment to any circle in which she might move." 

But the lady-in-waiting of Queen Victoria was 
mistaken, for Mrs. Clarke had two accomplish- 
ments, both rarely found in perfection among 
ladies. She was a bold, fearless and graceful 
horsewoman, and played an admirable game of 
chess. Speaking of her quickness, and the felici- 
tous skill with which she threw off little jeu 
d'esprits, in the shape of vers de societe, one day 
to Mr. Seyton, he replied : "She is capable of 
better things than she has yet done, and if she 
lives long enough will, I predict, make a name 
for herself among the poets of our country. I 
may not live to see the noontide of her success, 
but I can already see its dawn." 

A visit to a genial clime, however, brought only 
temporary relief, and it was determined she 
should reside under more favorable skies. Texas 
seemed to offer the proper advantages, and San 
Antonio was selected as her future home, where 
she moved early in 1856. Shortly after she left 
Raleigh she wrote from Tennessee, giving an 
account of her latter days, at her early home : 

"What with packing such articles of furniture 
as I desired to take, preparing the rest for the 
auction room, bidding good-bye to my many 
friends, and getting the children ready for the 
winter, I thought my hands were full, but I was 
mistaken. In the midst of all Major Clarke 
found he needed my services as a clerk, and for 



xlv Mary Bayard Clarke. 

days I sat, pen in hand, computing the interest of 
different amounts of money, running over every 
conceivable division of ten years. At last every 
sum was done, every article packed or sold, and 
poor Multifiora Cottage stood empty and dis- 
mantled ! With a heavy heart I turned my face 
from it to set out on my journey. But my 
strength was all gone; as soon as the stimulus 
of hard work, both mental and bodily, was taken 
from me, I sunk into complete despondency. 
Every parting seemed to tear a bit from my 
heart. 

"Poor, ugly, inconvenient Multiflora Cottage ! 
How beautiful do you look drawn by the pencil 
of memory, on a leaf of my heart, and set in a 
frame of sweet recollections ! Thus will you ever 
hang — a soft mezzotint in the picture gallery of 
memory. 

''Distance mellows your imperfections, and 
Time shall obliterate all but your pleasant remi- 
niscences. Long will it be before my heart can 
cling as lovingly to another home, or my mem- 
ory recall as many happy hours." 

In the frontier life to which she now looked 
forward, inconveniences were expected, and 
privations were a part of it; but an improvement 
in health reconciled her to the rugged life. Gov- 
ernment troops were stationed at San Antonio 
and the officers and their families afforded so- 
ciety. Among the officers was Albert Sydney 
Johnston, and Mrs. Clarke mentioned to the 
writer, witl(\ what ease and grace he often lifted 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xv 

her from the ground into the saddle by taking her 
up with both hands, and without effort on her 
part. 

Major Clarke soon came prominently before 
the public as President of the San Antonio and 
Mexican Gulf Railway. Mrs. Clarke, whose 
domestic duties always claimed her first attention, 
wrote in September, 1856: 

"When my heart is busy with sad thoughts 
my mind is idle, so I have resolutely set to work 
and am now studying Spanish and making shirts. 
When the children are all asleep I take my play- 
time, and either read or write." 

In one of her letters the same year she writes : 

"I can no longer be considered an invalid for 
I eat, sleep, walk, ride on horseback, and work 
like a well person. The weather is so charming 
it is hard to stay in the house. I often resolve 
on Monday that I will be very domestic all the 
week, and get through lots of sewing, but at the 
first invitation to join a party and go out nutting 
I start up like a war-horse at the sound of the 
trumpet, pack the children in a carriage, jump 
on a horse and am off for the day gathering not 
only pecans, but health and strength from the 
fresh breezes of the prairie." 

In the same she mentions a thrilling incident: 

"I have a habit, when alone, of getting up and 



xvl Mary Bayard Clarke. 

going through the house if I hear a noise at night, 
and as housebreaking has been prevalent of late 
I always sleep with a pistol on the mantel-piece. 
I was awakened a night last week by a noise like 
the cracking of a whip, and having not even a 
grown servant in the house, got up to see what 
was the cause; just as I was about leaving my 
room I heard a key turned softly in the door. I 
made one bound to the pistol and another to the 
door, which I threw open and found myself 
within ten steps of a man who had just opened 
the front door, and was apparently listening to 
know if he had aroused any one. I did not know 
I had half so much of what is generally termed 
the devil in me. I had but one intense desire, and 
that was to kill him. I had not a sensation of 
fear, but raised the pistol and took delib- 
erate aim at him ; he must have see the ac- 
tion, for the moon was very bright, and as 
I fired he jumped aside so as to put the 
door-way between us, otherwise he must 
have received the charge, which lodged in the 
fence in a direct line from where I stood. He 
ran, and I after him, and it was not until I had 
got several steps out of the door that I remem- 
bered my defenceless condition, when I turned 
and ran to my next neighbor, not twenty yards 
off, and rousing the gentleman I rushed back to 
my children, who were sleeping. By the time I 
had assistance the robber was out of sight; and 
then I began to feel afraid, and sitting down 
with the large cavalry sabre which I had taken 
down from a peg in the hall after my return, J 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xvii 

cried like a child. The fright and exposure 
gave me a chill and I have been sick and nervous 
ever since, and while acquaintances are talking 
of my bravery feel myself the veriest coward." 

The mild climate of San Antonio, however, 
while it had a favorable influence, failed as a 
restorative to the patient; the discomforts of 
frontier life doubtless hindered recovery. Her 
health continued to decline until a crisis was 
reached, at which her physician insisted she must 
leave the place. The stirring war time, too, was 
at hand, and its excitement was prejudicial to 
her morbidly nervous organization. 

In June, 1861, Major Clarke, having already 
entered the Southern army, she started with her 
four children for Raleigh, with the expectation 
of remaining with her family until more settled 
times. She traveled by way of Galveston, thence 
to Berwick's Bay, Louisiana, in an open pilot 
boat which took four days for the passage, during 
which the children and herself were frequently 
drenched by the rain. 

During the war Mrs. Clarke remained with her 
family in North Carolina, and was much of the 
time in Raleigh, w^here the writer met her in 1864. 
He wished to see all places in the locality asso- 
ciated with her childhood and early life, which 
she willingly pointed out to him, and it was with 
lively interest he noted the home where she first 
saw light; the noble oak, under whose shade she 
played, the old schoolhouse where she learned her 
letters, the stones over which little feet pattered 
on the way to school ; she took him to Multiflora 



xvlii Mary Bayard Clarke. 

Cottage and stood with him before the grave of 
her mother. 

Major Clarke accepted a commission as 
Colonel of the Twenty-fourth Regiment of North 
Carolina Infantry and was with that regiment in 
its numerous engagements, in one of which he 
was severely wounded in the shoulder by a frag- 
ment of shell. His capture and imprisonment in 
Fort Delaware toward the close of the war 
doubtless saved him from further injury, as the 
Twenty-fourth in its last battle suffered terribly ; 
there was not a single officer in it above the grade 
of lieutenant who was not killed, wounded or 
captured. 

In 1865 Mrs. Clarke became assistant editor 
of The Southern Field and Fireside, and 
writes from Raleigh : 

"I leave home at 9 o'clock and write in the 
office until 2. I review new books, write to 
correspondents, select matter, and write articles 
for the paper. I have a large quiet room, com- 
fortably furnished, with carpet and curtains, and 
am treated as a decided, and much-to-be-made-of 
addition to the establishment. My salary is paid 
weekly, and I generally leave home with the 
children when they go to school, and return when 
they do. I do not feel they are neglected. 

"My old Texas negro servant, hearing I was 
sick and needed her, came back to me, and my 
family are now all together for the first time in 
four years." 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xix 

The connection with The Southern Field and 
Fireside lasted only a few months, as Mrs. Clarke 
considered the proprietors had not dealt with her 
fairly. In 1866 she began writing regularly for 
The Old Guard, and occasionally for The 
Land We Love. A volume of her poems ap- 
peared about this time entitled "Mosses from a 
Rolling Stone," and was sold for the benefit 
of the fund raised by the ladies of Winchester 
(Va.)„ for the Stonewall Jackson cemetery of 
that place. 

Mrs. Clarke wrote occasionally about this time, 
but says in one of her letters : 

"Though there is a demand for my correspond- 
ence and contributions when they are furnished 
gratis, I can not get much money from Southern 
editors ; they are too poor to pay well." 

In 1868 Colonel Clarke went to New Berne 
(N. C.) to engage in the practice of the law. 
Mrs. Clarke soon followed, and writes of her ac- 
tive life. 

"I am busy editing my paper, the Literary 
Pastime; corresponding with two others; con- 
tributing to two magazines; and translating a 
French novel; added to which I am composing 
the libretto for an opera, and writing Sunday- 
school hymns at five dollars apiece." 

Although there was scant remuneration from 
her busy pen, in 1869 Mrs. Clarke was able to 



XX Mary Bayard Clarke. 

purchase a house in New Berne, which was her 
home during the remainder of her days. 

Soon after Colonel Clarke's removal to New 
Berne he was commissioned Judge of the third 
judicial district of the State, and held the office 
for a number of years. 

Mrs. Clarke's suffering on account of her 
health increased from year to year. The climate 
of New Berne was not friendly to it, but she had 
not the means to take advantage of any other. 
Judge Clarke's salary helped to defray domestic 
expenses while it lasted, but when he subse- 
quently resumed the practice of law, his income 
became much reduced, and the material fruits of 
Mrs. Clarke's hterary labors, always acceptable 
in view of their limited resources, were now 
the main source of supplying the requirements 
of the household; and nobly did she strive to 
meet pressing daily necessities, leaving many 
comforts and all luxuries as things that might be 
hoped for, but not expected. With all her cour- 
ageous effort, the return was inconsiderable, as 
general publishers, and proprietors of the maga- 
zines and newspapers, particularly of the South, 
who had the advantage of her writings, either 
were unwilling, or too poor to pay for them ; al- 
though always gratified to have a poem, an ar- 
ticle or a letter in their columns, under her sig- 
nature. Her life became a dreary monotone in 
every material aspect, but above bodily ills, and 
these mists of care and anxiety, rose an unsub- 
dued spirit, and a fancy ever ready for a flight; 
and which reposed only to be refreshed for fur- 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xxi 

ther enterprise in her favorite domain of song. 
On New Year's Day, 1876, she wrote: 

"I wish I could say I was well, but I have no 
hope of ever being better. I am one of those 
doors that hang long, but will always creak. 
Any sudden or unusual tax on my strength, or 
any anxiety or worry, upsets me entirely ; and 
the worst is that people who see me, only when 
I am at my best, think one-half my ill-health im- 
aginary, and the other half only the indulgence 
of my own whims — that I can do what is agree- 
able to me, but can not do what is not ; simply 
because I won't. I can't keep house or sew, with- 
out being laid up in a few days ; and it is impos- 
sible for me to get any writing to do that will 
pay and enable me to hire the work done. So I 
am generally either trying to do it, or repenting 
that I have tried. I sometimes despair and wish 
for the end, for I am so tired of it all. The new 
year seems but another link, added to a heavy 
chain. So here I am tired — rusting instead of 
wearing out — the old year closes sadly, and the 
new brings no hope of anything better." 

In March of the same year she wrote: 

"I review for Harper, Appleton, Sheldon, 
Scribner and Hale, but get only copies of the 
books from the publishers. Sometimes I can 
get pay for a review, but not often. I would 
give it up, but the reading matter keeps me from 
utter despair, by interesting my mind." 



xxli Mary Bayard Clarke. 

The following extract of a letter written in 
November, 1878, is in the cheerful tone that she 
usually maintained, in spite of privation and ill- 
health : 

" I have been on a spree of reading and 

writing. In three days I wrote five poems and 
two news letters. I will be merciful and send 
you one of the last when printed, which will con- 
tain one poem, the other four will keep until 
printed, when you will get them in broken doses. 
My son Willie says I have literary delirium tre- 
mens, for, of course, I have a headache, which I 
impute to mince pie and Thanksgiving, and the 
Doctor to my brain, which is shaky. He threat- 
ens me with congestion of it if I don't stop read- 
ing and writing for a while. I am having bron- 
chitis pretty badly this fall, and that always keeps 
me out of company, as talking is tiresome — con- 
sequently I read more than usual ; have just fin- 
ished a new history of the French Revolution 
epoch, by Van Laure, and "Idols and Ideals," by 
Moncure B. Conway — a perfect mine of literary 
jewels, from which I have stolen a handful and 
reset in rhyme, which is the cause of three of the 
five poems." 

Her heroic struggle against disease, care and 
despondency seemed of little avail, and while 
they did not subdue her spirit, caused her to note 
the unequal contest. In May, 1883, she wrote: 

"I feel life a muddle, too dense for me to dis- 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xxlii 

entangle, and so sit longing for it to end before 
I lose the power to be of any use in it." 

Serious as her trials had been in seeking to 
baffle bodily ailment, a more severe trial awaited, 
of which she wrote in November, 1883 : 

''My death warrant has been read to me. I 
shall not, probably, die soon, but I live under 
sentence of death and almost in a cell, for I have 
had a stroke of paralysis, affecting all my left 
side. The Doctor says from brain trouble. I 
write while I am able to tell you this myself. I 
can drag myself around the house, and talk after 
a fashion, but I will never go in public as I am 
now, and I have no hope of being better. I will 
write as long as I can, and always be the same — 
no, not that, I can't be the same Mary Bayard 
ever again." 

A month after the stroke she wrote : 

" 'The grasshopper is a burden,' or I would 
have written to you before. They say I will get 
over it, but I feel I never shall. The Catholic 
priest came to see me the other day — a good, old 
Irishman, who thinks me the best of heretics, 
and I think he did me more good than any one 
else. 'Be the same woman ye were? No! ye've 
no right to expect that, and then with tears in his 
eyes, he patted me on the shoulder and added: 
'But there's plenty left in life for ye to do, and 
enjoy yet, if ye can't be first and foremost and 



XXIV Mary Bayard Clarke. 

go at things with a rush, as ye have done.' This 
is the truth I am trying to bring home to myself, 
and 1 wish my children could make up their 
minds that mother is not going to get over it, 
but may live for years as she is, and had best try 
and adapt herself to circumstances." 

Unable to use a pen, she practiced upon a type- 
writer a friend kindly sent to her, and in April, 
1884, sent to the writer a neat note in type in 
which she says : 

"Post yourself on tricycles. I see ladies are 
using them, and I mean to try if I can get about 
on one; I have not the slightest desire to do so, 
but know I had better do so, if in my power. 

"I cannot tell you how much I enjoy my cali- 
graph. I could not write now without it, as for 
ten days I have had gout in my right hand ; I 
can use it with either hand, or rather with one 
finger of either hand." 

Her love of letters clung to her to the last. In 
April, 1885, she wrote: 

"I am stronger than I have been since I had 
the stroke, but my head is so confused, and my 
memory so much affected I can do little or no 
brain work. An hour of it tires me more than 
a day of it used to do. I have even lost my power 
of reading, for more than a short time, without 
rest. I have just finished 'The Life of George 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xxv 

Eliot,' by her husband, Mr. Cross, and am de- 
lighted with it, but the magazines and papers are 
about all I am equal to now." 

Again in November, 1885, she wrote: 

"I am very much interested in the Ethical 
Culture Movement, and have just finished a re- 
view of Weston's Lectures on it. Have you 
seen them? I have very Httle time for either 
reading or writing now, and feel very rusty, but 
sometimes I rouse up, and write a letter or read 
a book, though generally my time is taken up 
with sewing, housekeeping and attending to my 
sick husband." 

Judge Clarke, whose illness is mentioned in the 
foregoing extract, died in January, 1886. Mrs. 
Clarke wrote : 

"I am so miserable with a malarial fever. I 
have not strength to sit up, but, thankful he was 
spared all suffering. The last four months of 
his life was peaceful and happy — he had all his 
little wants gratified, and we petted him like a 
spoiled child." 

Mrs. Clarke died on March 30, 1886. Shortly 
afterward her daughter wrote: 

"On the 8th of March mother had another 
stroke. She had been greatly worried in getting 
the house in order for my brother Willie's mar- 
riage. Father's death and Willie's marriage were 



xxvi Mary Bayard Clarke. 

too much for her. I tried in every way to keep 
her as quiet as possible, as I was fearful of an- 
other attack. It was at her earnest request I was 
married at her bedside. After that she appeared 
to have put every earthly thing away. She lin- 
gered, without suffering, about two weeks longer, 
gradually growing more feeble, until she ceased 
to breathe." 

These disjointed facts and fragments of let- 
ters to the writer, may enable one to form an idea 
of her outer life ; as to her inner and spiritual 
life her poems speak in no unmeaning tone. 

It is usually supposed the literary pursuits of 
a wife and mother cannot otherwise than preju- 
dice the routine of daily cares incident to a house- 
hold. The domestic life of the subject of this 
sketch furnishes a notable illustration to the con- 
trary. Her family was of primary concern, to 
which all other wishes yielded precedence. Lit- 
erary recreation and labor was subordinate to 
giving to her home and its inmates, all the com- 
forts circumstances allowed. Her children's wel- 
fare was the first object of her heart; self-abne- 
gation, where they were concerned, was a duty 
crowned with pleasure, and the fact they have be- 
come respected and influential members of soci- 
ety, may be traced to her training and unceasing 
exertions in their behalf. 

With all her fondness for the sequestered life 
of a student, and the solitude in which reflection 
or fancy could have full sway, she was not a re- 
cluse; but sought the companionship of congenial 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xxvli 

spirits, and had for society a zest without alloy. 
Her colloquial powers which varied and exten- 
sive reading gave something more than the com- 
monplace talk of the drawing room, was made all 
the more interesting by her unassuming manner. 
It was foreign to her nature to make display of 
her acquisitions, and she never insisted on a 
point in history or letters which may have been 
questioned, although her faithful memory was 
rarely at fault. Ill-health, however, and un- 
toward circumstances, compelled her, in a great 
measure, to forego the enjoyment of that social 
life in which an impromptu verse by her, a repar- 
tee, or her ready and amiable wit, was delight- 
ful and pre-emient. 

Mrs. Clarke had an easy, graceful, fluent style 
in prose. Her contributions to various magazines 
and newspapers of the day were numerous, and 
showed vigor of thought, rare discernment and 
a critical taste. 

From the year 1865 to the year 1883 was a 
busy portion of Mrs. Clarke's busy life. This 
period embraced the reconstruction era in politics, 
and it was also a re-establishment of social con- 
dition. The framework of society was involved 
in the struggle for Southern Independence and 
constitutional liberty, and was disintegrated by it 
as effectually as the thin, ragged battalions of 
Lee were scattered by overwhelming odds. 

While the question of supply for material need, 
at this time, was paramount ; the question next in 
importance was the manner in which to meet the 
new phase of life which confronted all, and to 



xxvlii Mary Bayard Clarke. 

formulate and carry out views adapted to the 
changed and lower fortunes of the people. 

Novel circumstances required novel views to 
meet them, as an unexpected move of an enemy 
might require a skilful commander to vary his 
plan of battle, even on the field. There was 
nought to be gained in surrendering to despair, 
or moaning over lost opportunity. The need of 
the time was high resolve to meet new and dis- 
tressing contingencies, by heroism worthy of the 
fields of Manassas or Chickamauga ; and out of 
the loins of adversity to pluck the sweetness of 
peace and content. It was into this patriotic 
work that Mrs. Clarke entered with all the force 
of her nature. Her pen was never wearied, nor 
did it ever rest, until chaos had resolved itself 
into order, and harmony had succeeded to dis- 
cord and contention. 

Mrs. Clarke's literary range was not limited to 
her mother-tongue. She was familiar with many 
of the best writers in German, Spanish and 
French, and made translations from these lan- 
guages in easy and graceful prose, and in verse 
whose rhymthic flow and truthful rendering 
caused them to be acceptable contributions to the 
literature of the language. 

It has been said that the attribute of art is to 
suggest infinitely more than it expresses, and of 
genius to catch suggestions, no matter from what 
source, and reproduce them stamped with its own 
unmistakable mark. Tried by this standard, 
these poems may not be unworthily placed among 
the tributes of genius to poetic art. 



Mary Bayard Clarke. xxix 

Her versatile power of rendering an incident 
into rhyme caused her to write many poems of 
passing and local interest, which it has been 
deemed proper to omit, as they were never in- 
tended for other than the time and place in which 
they had their origin. The poems selected are 
given in chronological order, with a view of 
showing the favored themes of her fancy, at dif- 
ferent stages of her career. In their mute ap- 
peal for a permanent place in the literature of 
Southern homes, if not to a more extended cir- 
cle, the views of the writer of this sketch may not 
be impartial, and, indeed, may be out of place. 
He feels, however, that appeal will not be made 
in vain, and that they will have a place in the 
Queendom of song, due to their intrinsic merit, 
under the verdict of the hearts ''touched to fine 
issues," for which they were intended. 



THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 

An early, novel and well-sustained effort of the cre- 
ative genius of Mrs. Clarke, first appeared in "Wood- 
Notes," a collection of poems, written by North Caroli- 
nians, edited by her, and published in 1854. 

The Ice-King opened his frozen gates to hold 
high court one day, 

And his liege-men all were summoned there, du- 
tiful homage to pay. 

His palace was built of veinless blocks, hewn in 
the frigid zone. 

And lit with a gleam of rosy light from an Au- 
rora thrown. 

His sea-green throne was a frozen wave brought 
from the northern pole, 

Which seemed with its gleaming crest congealed 
ere it had ceased to roll. 

Drest in his dazzling robes he sat in his council- 
chamber wide, 

And cast on its strong and lofty walls a glance of 
haughty pride : 

A sceptre of ice in his hand he held, which glit- 
tered with many a gem ; 

While the diamond and opal's changing light 
flashed from his diadem. 

His mantle of snow around him fell in many a 
spotless fold, 



32 The Triumph of Spring. 

With an edge of lace-work, rich and light, 

wrought by the Hoar-Frost cold. 
He smiled as his warriors round him came, clad 

all in frozen mail. 
Their gleaming swords the icicles sharp — their 

darts the rattling hail. 
There stood the North-Wind, wrapped in clouds, 

with his dark- forbidding face, 
The piercing East-Wind, clear and cold, with his 

subtle, treach'rous grace ; 
And there was the still and silent Sleet, with his 

armour glittering bright, 
And the stinging Frost, both Black and Hoar, 

who only work at night. 

"My children," he said, "my liege-men bold, 

hearken to my command — 
Meddlesome Spring is seeking again to enter my 

chosen land ; 
When first she stole on me unawares and melted 

my jewels bright, 
I swore in my wrath I never would see the mis- 
chievous, troublesome sprite ; 
What care I for her bright green leaves, her buds 

and flowers so gay? 
My mantle of snow and my icy gems are lovelier 

far than they. 
And sweeter, too, are my rushing winds with 

their whistle keen and sharp, 
Than the softest notes she ever drew from the 

strings of her woodland harp. 
Then hang my jewels on every bough, and let 

my cold winds blow — 



The Triumph of Spring. 33 

And, lest she hide in the bosom of earth, go, bury 

it deep in snow. 
For I'll let her know, a king am I whom none dare 

disobey, 
In fetters of ice I'll bind her fast and sweep her 

flowers away. 
And if, in spite of my solemn oath, she seeks an 

entrance here, 
I order you all to drive her forth at the point of 

sword and spear." 
They bowed them low at his behest, for he was a 

mighty king. 
And by his sceptre each one swore to conquer 

treacherous Spring. 
The North-Wind blew his rudest blast to meet 

the Southern breeze, 
While the silent Sleet, as the rain-drops fell, with 

icicles gemmed the trees. 
The lowering Snow-cJouds veiled the Sun, lest 

Spring should lurk in his ray, 
And the Hoar-Frost sealed the earth like a stone 

to drive her thence away : 
And over the fields a pall was cast — a pall of 

whitest snow — 
Beneath whose folds all life was chilled, and Na- 
ture's pulse beat low. 
And when from his throne, on the wings of the 

storm, the Ice-King forth did ride, 
He saw not a nook in all the land where he fan- 
cied Spring could hide. 
Each shrub, and tree, and blade of grass, that 

peeped from the snowy pall, 



34 The Triumph of Spring. 

Was cased in a sparkling sheen of ice that the 

Sleet had laid on all. 
The Sun was hid by a murky cloud that hung like 

a gathering frown, 
And the air was filled with the driving snow, that, 

ghost-like floated down ; 
While the breast of earth by the frost was raised, 

as though it heaved a sigh 
For the genial warmth of prisoned Spring, as the 

frigid king rushed by. 
"Ha! ha!" he shouted and dashed along, "this, 

this is but sport to me. 
The beauties of Spring, what are they, I pray, to 

Winter's boisterous glee?" 
And then in his joy he tossed the snow in many a 

drift and mound. 
Rattling the ice-boughs till they cracked and fell 

to the frozen ground. 
But he wearied soon of such stormy sport, and 

slept in his palace of snow, 
"My liege-men," he said, "can conquer Spring, 

for they hold all above and below." 

For a while fast bound in a chain of ice the deft- 
fingered fairy lay, 

But she silently kissed each frozen link till she 
melted them all away : 

With timid steps she slowly moved, till in every 
warrior's breast 

Suspicion of her near approach was wholly lulled 
to rest. 

Then, with gentle wiles each foe she plies till the 
West- Winds gently play, 



The Triumph of Spring. 35 

And the Snow-clouds melt before their breath, or, 
spirit-like float away. 

The silent Sleet next owns her power, and lets his 
ice-darts fall. 

As gently from the frozen earth she draws its 
snowy pall ; 

The Frost no longer seals its breast, the fruit- 
trees burst in bloom. 

While the meek-eyed violet lifts its head and 
sighs a sweet perfume. 

But alas ! one day in her earnest zeal she bade the 
Zephyrs blow. 

And their balmy breath was wafted on to the Ice- 
King's home of snow. 

'What, ho !' " he cried, and started up, *T felt the 
breath of Spring, 

The lazy Zephyrs fan my brow, and birds begin 
to sing." 

Then he called for the treach'rous East- Wind 
cold, and swept the startled land. 

Till the Hoar-Frost worked and the rain-drops 
fell once more at his command. 

His ice-clad warriors rose from sleep at his rat- 
tling chariot's sound. 

They waved their gleaning swords on high and 
scattered their arrows round : 

They shook the trees till the blossoms fell before 
their stormy wrath, 

And strewed them with their icy breath in the 
angry monarch's path. 

The Hoar-Frost stamped on the springing grass 
and seared its tender blade; 



36 The Triumph of Spring. 

And the shivering mock-bird hushed his note, of 

the driving blast afraid. 
How often thus by Death's cold hand our joys 

are snatched away, 
While by his breath our bursting hopes are 

blighted in a day ! 
Yet the wounded heart can better bear affliction's 

stormy night 
Than the lingering death its love must die if cold 

indifference blight. 
But rouse ye ! hearts who mourn o'er this, take 

courage from the fay. 
And strive, like her, by loving wiles to melt the 

frost away. 
She had bravely fought 'gainst sleet and snow, 

the driving hail and rain ; 
She had stilled the North-Wind's rudest blast 

and melted his icy chain. 
With her balmy breath and her sunny smile she 

worked with right good will. 
Though the Hoar-Frost keen in the silent night 

did terrible mischief still. 
Around her steps lay blighted buds and withered 

leaf and flower, 
Yet she bravely said : "Vl\ never yield to the Ice- 
King's cruel power; 
For ril hie me away to his frozen court in my 

robe of brightest green, 
And ril melt his heart with such tender love 

he'll woo me for his queen." 

The Ice-King sat on his emerald throne — drest 
in his robes of state. 



The Triumph of Spring. 37 

But his warriors saw his heart was filled with 

wrath and vengeful hate. 
With a withering glance of rage and scorn he 

turned to where they stood, 
"And so," he cried, ''the fairy Spring has made 

her entrance good ; 
Did I not bid ye ward to keep, and guard 'gainst 

each device — 
To bind her fast to the breast of Earth with an 

adamant chain of ice? 
Ye are faithless servants, one and all, and I trust 

you now no more. 
But I myself, both night and day, will guard my 

palace door," 
Slowly they turned and moved away, they could 

not meet his look. 
For a deadly languor o'er them crept, and all 

like cowards shook. 
But all unmoved the angry king walked slowly 

up and down. 
And dark and vengeful were his thoughts and 

terrible his frown ; 
He swore in an iceberg, strong and cold, he'd 

prison the mischievous fay, 
And bind it fast to the northern pole, out of the 

reach of day. 
Like muttering thunder — deep, not loud — his 

sounding curses rolled 
Through his spacious courts, his vacant halls, his 

corridors lone and cold. 
But hark ! a murmuring sound he hears, with 

distant music low : 



38 The Triumph of Spring. 

Can it be the song of triumph raised by the con- 
queror of his foe? 

As he strode through his lonely silent halls to 
fling the portal wide 

He little dreamed she was smiling there — just 
on the other side! 

But he knew her not when he saw her stand — a 
maiden young and fair, 

With the dewy buds of the pink moss-rose 
twined in her golden hair; 

In her little hand a harp she bore, and the music 
from its strings 

Was the joyous songs of the forest bird and the 
hum of the wild bee's wings. 

Like sporting Cupids by her side, attendant 
Zephyrs danced, 

And the rugged king forgot his wrath and stood 
like one entranced. 

Meekly to him she raised her eyes, of the deep- 
est violet blue. 

While a mantling blush stole o'er her cheek like 
the sunset's rosy hue ; 

"I come," she said, "from a distant land whence 
I fled from a mighty foe ; 

A refuge I seek in your icy courts and palace of 
sparkling snow." 

''Come in, come in," the monarch said, "a beauti- 
ful thing art thou, 

With thy velvet robe of living green and the 
flowers upon thy brow; 

And it may be our foe's the same — the mischiev- 
ous fairy Spring — 



The Triumph of Spring. 39 

But she's worse, by far, than e'er I dreamed, to 

harm such a tender thing. 
Nay, shrink not, fair one, from my touch," he 

said, and kissed her brow, 
"Thou hast sought a home in my icy courts — a 

home and a heart hast thou." 
And as he gazed on the lovely sprite his heart 

began to glow, 
For love sprang up in his frozen breast like vio- 
lets in the snow : 
The gentle Zephyrs from his dress, unheeded, 

plucked each gem. 
They bore his sceptre of ice away and reft his 

diadem ; 
He did not see his palace walls were melting fast 

away. 
He gazed alone with passionate love on that 

bright and sparkHng fay. 
She nestled close to his frozen heart, its haughty 

pride to melt. 
Till he led her gently to his throne and at her 

footstool knelt. 
"Joy, joy!" she cried, "I've triumphed now, the 

Ice-King kneels to Spring!" 
He said not a word, but he bowed him low to 

the tiny radiant thing. 



40 The Fairies' Dance. 



THE FAIRIES' DANCE. 

"The Fairies' Dance" appeared in "Wood-Notes," al- 
ready alluded to. 

Who could have been so apt a chronicler, save a 
Fancy born and nurtured in fairy-land, imbued with 
the spirit and familiar with the associations of its 
people? 

How oft in the days of my childhood I read 
Those wonderful tales of the Fays and their 
Queen, 
And heartily envied the Hves that they led, 
For I firmly believed in their dance on the 
green. 
Ah, well I remember that soft night in June, 
When having discovered their ring in the 
grass, 
Methought I would watch by the light of the 
moon, 
And see if such wonders would still come to 
pass. 

As I opened my window and gazed on the night, 
How lovely the vision that greeted my eye ! 
The leaves and the flowers were bathed in soft 
light. 



The Fairies' Dance. 41 

While the "tears of the Angels" were spark- 
ling on high. 
The Genius of Darkness in silence reposed, 

As wrapped in a mantle of moonlight he lay, 
For gently the wings of the Giant had closed 
Beneath the soft touch of that bright silver 
ray. 



Ah ! bright were the fancies that danced thro' my 
brain. 
As I eagerly counted the stroke of the clock, 
And hoped that my vigil would not be in vain, 
But the Fairies would dance till the crowing 
of cock. 
I listened — all nature lay hushed in repose. 
When gently there stole from the bosom of 
earth 
A strain of low music that swelled as it rose, 
Till it seemed the outpouring of gladness and 
mirth. 



At the sound of this music the flowers awoke, 

I saw their bright cups in a moment expand, 
When, lo ! from these cells there suddenly broke. 

As freed by some magic, a gay Fairy band. 
From the depth of each blossom there came a 
fair elf. 

Whom safe in its petals it guarded by day, 
And kept closely prisoned in spite of itself. 

Till their Queen gave the elfins permission to 
play. 



42 The Fairies' Dance. 

I watched a pure Lily its white petals spread, 
I marked the long tube of the Woodbine un- 
close, 
And forth from their centre whence perfume is 
shed, 
The Queen and her lovely young maidens 
arose. 
Every prison now opened, and out they came 
streaming 
From the cells of each flower that bloomed in 
my view; 
The air in an instant with Fairies was teeming, 
Who all of them merrily sung as they flew. 

'*Oh, the fair moon is up, by her slivery light, 

We Fairies may merrily dance on the green, 
She hath bound in slumber the Genius of night. 

And high in the heavens is reigning a queen. 
Then Fairies away, 'tis the hour for play, 

For laUj^hter and gladness, for dance and for 
song. 
We'll be merry and gay, till the break of the day. 

If haply old Darkness shall slumber so long." 

From the tuft of the scarlet Verboena they sped, 
From the bud of the Fox-glove all spangled 
with dew, 
Like a cloud they arose from the Mignonette 
bed, 
From the teeth of the Fly-trap they gallantly 
flew. 
From the leaves of the Rose, from the Violet's 
cell, 



The Fairies' Dance. 43 

From the depths of the Fuchsia they merrily 
sprang, 
They were hid 'mid the sweets of the Jessamine's 
bell, 
And seemed on the Bachelor's Button to hang. 

They looked like the rapidly changing shade 

Of the Rainbow's light in a summer shower, 
Or the mingling hues by the sunset made. 

For each was the tint of its favorite flower. 
As butterflies oft in the heat of the day, 

Upon the cool bank of some rivulet sport, 
I marked to the ring they all fluttered away, 

Where high in the midst the Queen held her 
court. 

For hours I watched them, as round an old oak 
They danced to the sound of that heart-stirring 
strain, 
Till growing too noisy, old Darkness awoke, 

And chid them all back to their flowers again. 
In anger the Giant arose from his rest, 

And from him his mantle of moonlight he cast. 
Then frowned on the Moon till she sank in the 
west, 
For she knew that her hour of triumph was 
past. 

Ah, yes, it was ended, and Darkness again 
Spread over the earth his broad wings for a 

while. 
Till the goddess of Morn, as she rose o'er the 

plain. 



44 The Fairies' Dance. 

Dispelled all his gloom by the light of her 
smile. 
She dried up the tears of the Fairies that fell 

In drops of fresh dew on the flowers around, 
And I said in my heart as I bade them farewell, 
I'm glad that I know where the Fairies are 
found. 



Shadows. 45 



SHADOWS. 

There are moments of sadness in life, 

When silently over me fall 
Forebodings of sorrow and strife — 

Dim shadows far-reaching and tall. 

Are they warnings of trouble before. 
Thus vaguely and faintly defined, 

Or hauntings of that which is o'er. 
Yet leaveth its shadow behind? 

Why hath not the feeling a name? 

In tear-drops it seeketh relief, 
But, oh, it is never the same 
As sadness that cometh with grief. 

It is not that darkness abiding. 
When the spirit in battle must cope 

With sorrow, whose banner is hiding 
The star-light that shineth from hope; 

When the heart its own bitterness knows, 
But keepeth it secret from all. 

Though the torrent of feeding o'erfldws. 
And tears of hot anguish will fall. 



46 Shadows. 

Does it come like a bugle-note citing 
The spirit to arm for a fight — 
The gray clasp of twilight uniting 

Joy's sunshine with sorrow's dark night? 

Or is it a solemn-toned chant, 

And not the vague warnings of griefs 
The dew that's distilled on the plant — 

Not the frost that discolors the leaf? 

I know not, but fain would believe, 

The feeling betokens no ill, 
But comes the full heart to relieve, 

And bid the flushed spirit be still. 

And when on my pathway it falls 

The warning shall not be in vain. 
But the voice of an angel that calls 
My soul to its duties again. 



The Rain upon the Hills. 47 



THE RAIN UPON THE HILLS. 

An inspiration from the infinite depths of a moth- 
er's heart, tender in its conception, chastely simple in 
its expression. No one can read it without emotion, 
or rest satisfied to read it only once. 

Though 'tis raining on the hills, love, 

'Tis raining on the hills, 
Not the shadow of a cloud, love, 

The smiling valley fills. 
See how the sunlight falls, love, 
As though it loved to rest 

Upon that youthful mother, love, 

Her first-born on her breast. 



She cares not for the world, love. 

Its pleasures or its wealth. 
She thinks but of her child, love. 

His happiness and health. 
Life's sorrows are to her, love, 

But rain upon the hills, 
While the sunlight of that babe, love. 

Her happy bosom fills. 



48 The Rain upon the Hills. 

But see, the cloud rolls on, love, 
'Tis deep'ning all the while : 
And the sunlight from the vale, love, 
Is fading hke a smile; 
Is fading hke a smile, love, 
That's followed by despair. 
When the idols of the heart, love. 
Are vanishing in air. 

The frightened mother starts, love. 

And clasps her baby now : 
For she seeth that a shade, love. 

Is gath'ring o'er his brow. 
She is weeping o'er her child, love, 

'Tis raining in the vale — 
Life struggleth now with death, love, 

God grant he may prevail. 

The cloud has passed away, love, 

The sun is shining bright ; 
And that mother's trembling heart, love, 

Rejoiceth in the light — 
But the mem'ry of that storm, love. 

Her bosom ever fills, 
And she feareth for the vale, love. 

When 'tis raining on the hills. 



Nuptial Hymn of the Greeks. 49 



NUPTIAL HYMN OF THE GREEKS. 

This translation from Lamartine, although written 
earlier, appeared during the year 1866 in a collection 
of poems by Mrs. Clarke, entitled, "Mosses from a 
Rolling Stone ; or, Idle Moments of a Busy Woman." 

Exquisite delicacy of sentiment was never robed 
in lines of sweeter rhythmic flow. Its words linger in 
the heart like the close of melody of which we ask, as 
Illyria's Duke, 

"That strain again." 

Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
Over the couch where beauty reposes ! 

Wherefore weep'st thou, dark-eyed daughter? 

'Tis no day for tears and gloom, 
Like a lily o'er the water. 

Bending with its sweet perfume, 
Hangs thy head as o'er thee flushes 
Love's bright glow in rosy blushes. 

Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
Over the couch where beauty reposes. 
'Tis thy lover thou dost hear, 

Take the ring that seals his flame, 
Wear it without doubt or fear. 
Trembling but with maiden shame. 



50 Nuptial Hymn of the Greeks. 

If thy love burns in his soul, 

There 't will glow while this is whole. 

Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
Over the couch where beauty reposes. 
In thy hand the torch is burning 

Sacred unto nuptial bliss, 
Let thy heart so fondly yearning, 
Feed a flame as pure as this; 
Shedding e'er its sweet perfume 
O'er life's pathway to the tomb. 

Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
Over the couch where beauty reposes. 
Crowned kids around are playing 

By young maidens brought to thee. 
Like them, in the meadow straying 
Soon thy children thou shah see. 
New-born joys that crown the life 
Of the mother and the wife. 

Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
Over the couch where beauty reposes. 
In the valley wreath the myrtle 

That shall shade thy infant's head. 
Learn the cooing of the turtle 
As thou mak'st his little bed; 
In the summer's golden prime 
Ready make for harvest time. 

Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
Over the couch where beauty reposes. 



Nuptial Hymn of the Greeks. 51 

Canst thou murmur like the water 

As it ripples o'er the stones? 
Woman is but nature's daughter — 
Let her learn her mother's tones. 
Practice now the notes that best 
Lull the infant to its rest. 



52 Aphrodite. 



APHRODITE. 

Aphrodite ! The tale is old, but it is here given to 
us fresh and fair as a rose freighted with the dew of 
the morning. 

'Twas in the Spring-time of the world, 
The sun's red banners were unfurled, 
And slanting rays of golden light 
Just kissed the billows tipped with white, 
And through the water's limpid blue 
Flashed down to where the sea-weed grew; 
While rainbow hues of every shade 
Across the restless surface played. 
Then, as the rays grew stronger still, 
They sought the sea-girt caves to fill, 
And sparkled on the treasures rare, 
That all unknown were hidden there. 
Roused by their warm electric kiss 
The ocean thrilled with wak'ning bliss. 
Its gasping sob and heaving breast 
The power of in-born life confest. 
But, though their waves were tossed ashore. 
Upon their crests no life they bore. 

Deep hidden in its darkest cave. 
Unmoved by current, wind or wave, 
A purple shell of changing shade, 
By nature's careful hand was laid; 



Aphrodite. 53 

The clinging sea-weed, green and brown, 
With fibrous grasp still held it down 
Despite the water's restless flow ; 
But when they caught that deep'ning glow 
They flushed with crimson, pink and gold, 
And from the shell unclasped their hold. 
Its shadowy bonds thus drawn aside, 
It upward floated on the tide; 
But still its valves refused to yield, 
And still its treasure was concealed. 

Close shut upon the waves it lay 

Till warmly kissed by one bright ray, 

When lo ! its pearly tips unclose, 

As ope the petals of the rose ; 

And pure and fresh as morning dew 

Fair Aphrodite arose to view. 

First — like a startled child amazed — 

On earth, and air, and sea she gazed, 

Then shook the wavy locks of gold 

That o'er her neck and bosom rolled, 

Loosened the cestus on her breast, 

'Gainst which her throbbing heart now prest; 

For ah ! its clasp could not restrain 

The new-born life that thrilled each vein. 

Flushed to her rosy fingers' tips, 

And deeply dyed her parted lips. 

Spread o'er her cheek its crimson glow 

And tinged her heaving bosom's snow. 

Conscious of beauty and its power 

She owns the influence of the hour. 

Instinct with life attempts to rise. 

Her quick-drawn breath melts into sighs, 



54 Aphrodite. 

Her half-closed eyes in moisture swim, 
And languid droops each rounded limb; 
With yielding grace her lovely head 
Sinks back upon its pearly bed, 
Where changing shades of pink attest 
The spot her glowing cheeks hath prest. 
There all entranced she silent lay, 
Borne on 'mid showers of silvery spray, 
Which caught the light and backward fell 
In sparkling diamonds round her shell. 
Thus wafted by the western breeze, 
Cythera's flowery isle she sees ; 
Its spicy odors round her float. 
And thither glides her purple boat; 
And, when its prow had touched the land, 
There stepped upon the golden sand 
With life, and love, and beauty warm, 
A perfect woman's matchless form. 

The tale is old, yet always new 
To every heart which proves it true; 
The limpid waters of the soul 
In snow-crowned waves of feeling roll. 
Until love's soft pervading light 
Has unto color kissed the white 
And in its deep recesses shown 
Rich treasures to itself unknown, 
Through many restless sob and sigh 
Nor ever learn the reason why; 
Whilst others wake with sudden start 
To feel the glow pervade their heart, 
Flash down beneath its surface swell 
And shine on Passion's purple shell. 



Aphrodite. 55; 

Change to the rainbow's varying hue 
The ties it may not rend in two; 
Till doubts and fears which held it fast 
Beneath love's glow relax their grasp; 
Slowly the network fades away 
Like fleecy clouds at opening day, 
And Passion woke by warmth and light 
In deep'ning shades springs into sight. 

But man the shell too often holds, 
Nor sees the beauty it enfolds; 
Its close shut valves refuse to part 
And show the depths of woman's heart. 
And tossing on life's billows high 
The purple shell unoped may lie, 
Till cast on Death's cold, rocky shore, 
Its life and longing both are o'er. 
But if Love's warm entrancing light 
Shall kiss the parting lips aright, 
And wake to life the beauty rare 
Which Nature's self hath hidden there, 
Beneath his soft enraptured smile 
'Tis wafted to the flowery isle, 
An Aphrodite steps ashore 
A perfect woman — nothing more. 
San Antonio, January i, 1861. 



^6 Annie Carter Lee. 



ANNIE CARTER LEE. 

"Died, at Jones' Springs, Warren County, N. _^C., 
October 20, 1862, Annie Carter Lee, daughter of Gen. 
Robert E. Lee, C. S. A." 

"Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 
Saviour, in thy word we trust, 
Sow we now our precious grain. 
Thou shalt raise it up again. 
Plant we the terrestrial root 
Which shall bear celestial fruit, 
Lay a bud within the tomb 
That a flower in Heaven may bloom. 
Severed are no tender ties. 
Though in Death's embrace she lies, 
For the lengthened chain of love 
Stretches to her home above. 
Mother, in thy bitter grief 
Let this thought bring sweet relief— 
(Mother of an angel now,) 
God Himself hath crowned thy brow 
With the thorns the Saviour wore; 
Blessed art thou evermore! 
Unto Him thou dost resign 
A portion of the life was thine. 
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 
Sore the trial, sweet the trust. 



Annie Carter Lee. 57 

Father — thou who seest Death 
Reaping grain at every breath, 
As his sickle sharp he wields 
O'er our bloody battlefields — 
Murmur not that now he weaves 
This sweet flower into his sheaves. 
Taken in her early prime, 
Gathered in the summer time, 
Autumn's blast she shall not know, 
Never shrink from winter's snow. 
Sharp the pang which thou must feel. 
Sharper than the foeman's steel; 
For thy fairest flower is hid 
Underneath the coffin's lid. 
O'er her grave thou drop'st no tear, 
Warrior stern must thou appear, 
Crushing back the tide of grief 
Which in vain demands relief. 
Louder still thy country cries, 
At thy feet it bleeding lies, 
And before the patriot now 
Husband — Father — both must bow. 
But unnumbered are thy friends. 
And from many a home ascends 
Earnest, heartfelt prayers for thee, 
"That as thy days thy strength may be." 



58 The Water-Sprite's Bridal 



THE WATER-SPRITE'S BRIDAL. 

Pride might justly swell the heart of the poet who 
could make a foray into the fair demesne of the Imagi- 
nation and return laden with spoils such as these! 

The Rio San Antonio is one of the most beautiful 
streams in Texas. It bursts from a basin of white lime- 
stone, twenty feet deep and nine or ten in circumfer- 
ence, the irregular sides of which are covered to the 
bottom with water-cresses in every stage of vegetation, 
from the vivid green of the half-open leaf to the crim- 
son and yellow of the passing one ; so the Spring, 
when the sun shines into it, seems lined with a tapestry 
of jewels woven on a ground-work of silver. Near 
it may generally be found in bloom a small white lily, 
as fragrant as the tube-rose, which springs up after 
every shower, and, in a single night, will cover the 
prairie as the stars the heavens. Its pure white chal- 
ice is a fit emblem of the perfect love shadowed forth 
in the followmg allegory : 

On the borders of a river 

In our sunny southern land, 
Long ago a fairy princess 

Dwelt with her attendant band. 
Hidden from all mortal vision 

Was each tiny elfin shape, 
Seeming now a darting sunbeam 

'Mid the olive and the grape: 



The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 59 

Now a sparkle on the river 

As it gurgling ghdes along, 
Whilst its ever murmuring ripple 

Was the echo of their song. 
Sporting in its limpid coolness 

If they splashed the water high. 
It was but the cascade foaming 

When it met a mortal's eye; 
If in fairy frolic leaped they 

From the river in their play, 
Instantly they seemed bright rainbows 

Woven in the dashing spray. 
If they lurked 'mid leafy shadows 

Quivering sumbeams sparkled there, 
If they danced upon the meadow 

Dewy fragrance filled the air. 
Lights and sounds of nature were they 

Unto mortal eye and ear, 
But the Water-Sprite might see them 

In their fairy forms appear. 
Hid behind the cascade's curtain, 

Lurking in the golden sand, 
Peeping from some mossy crevice, 

Oft he watched the fairy band. 
Carelessly they bathed and sported, 

All unconscious they were seen. 
Feeding thus his glowing passion 

For their loved and lovely queen. 
Eagerly he watched her daily 

As she laid her robes aside, 
And with her attendant maidens. 

Plunged into the cooling tide. 



Co The Water-Sprite's BrIdaL 

There each day she longer lingered 

Whilst his passion stronger grew. 
Till he almost was a mortal 

In the suff'ring that he knew. 
Now with rainbow hopes elated, 

Then in deep and black despair 
Trembling with his sweet emotion, 

Swayed by trifles light as air. 
Luring her with wiles most loving 

To the shady river side, 
Rushing, when he saw her coming, 

'Neath the lily leaves to hide. 

But one day the fairy came not, 

In the meadow did not stray, 
Though he listened, watched and waited 

Through a long, long summer's day. 
Bursting then each fear that bound him 

All his passion uncontrolled 
Wildly leaping in his bosom, 

Through his veins like lava rolled. 
Eagerly he sought his treasure 

All along the river side, 
Burning now to tell the feeling 

Heretofore he sought to hide. 
In a wooded dell he found her 

Weeping 'neath a linden tree, 
Not a thought of self came o'er him 

As he slowly bent his knee. 
"Who hath wounded thee, my darling?' 

Were the words that from him burst- 
Not his passion, but her sorrow — 

Stirred his gen'rous spirit first. 



The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 6i 

Starting from him in amazement, 

Up the Httle beauty sprang, 
And the pride of all her lineage 

In her startled accents rang: 
"Wherefore do you dare to seek me 

When I fain would be alone?" 
But he saw surprise was struggling 

With the anger of her tone. 
Lifted were the gates of silence, 

Love, like wine, now made him bold, 
Wondering at his former shyness 

All his passion then he told. 
Anger vanished as she listened, 

Trembling with a new-born bliss. 
Timidly she nestled to him 

And returned his glowing kiss. 
In a warm, bright stream, electric 

To her lip his passion thrilled, 
And with rosy hues advancing 

All her wakened spirit filled. 
Like a lily-bud unfolding, 

In the flowery month of May, 
To his love her soul expanded 

As upon his heart she lay. 
Love — the pure ethereal passion — 

Wells from nature's throbbing heart, 
And, though mortals quaff it deepest, 

Spirits also claim a part. 
With its joy they taste its sorrow, 

So the Wood-Nymph and the Sprite 
Found that nature's bright elixir 

Was not all unmixed delight. 



62 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 

Waking from his blissful reverie 

In her ear he whispers low, 
"Wilt thou wed with me, my darling?" 

And she sighing answers, "No; 
Knowst thou not that woodland fairies 

Only wed among themselves? 
We are flowers, and, like them, wither 

If we mate with other elves. 
Should I yield me to thy wooing 

I'd no longer be a fay. 
Wedded to a Water-Spirit 

All my power would fade away/' 
**But," he pleaded, "in my kingdom 

Thou wilt share the power that's mine, 
For the moment that I clasp thee 

Half my nature melts in thine; 
Queen of both the land and water 

Shall my little princess reign, 
Neither land nor Water-Spirit, 

But a mingling of the twain." 

Thus he wooed — and wooing won her; 

Doubts and fears were laid aside. 
And she passed into the river 

As the Water-Spirit's bride. 
To his bosom fondly clinging 

Downward from the light of day, 
Downward from the sun and flowers. 

Sank the half unconscious fay; 
Down to where earth's deepest fountains 

Bubbled from their sands of gold, 
And her subterranean rivers 

From their hidden sources rolled. 



The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 63 

Cold and dark to her those caverns. 

Which to him were warm and bright, 
And but half a Water-Spirit 

Soon she trembled with affright. 
Tenderly he soothed and cheered her, 

Drew her closer to his side, 
As her lingering fairy nature 

Vainly she essayed to hide. 
But he felt it quivering in her — 

Saw his bliss to her was pain, 
And so true and pure his passion 

That he bore her back again. 
Then, the long imprisoned river 
Following as he upward went, 
With a mighty leap exultant 

Through its rocky arches rent — 
Rent them as love rends the fetters 

Prudence doth 'gainst passion urge, 
When the glowing waves of feeling 

In a mortal's bosom surge. 
Darkly through its hidden caverns 

Still the river might have rushed, 
But the rock by love was smitten 

And its waters outward gushed. 
Onward, upward, bubbling, gurgling 

In a silver stream they rise, 
Till in sunlight 'mid the flowers 

Once again the fairy lies. 
Welling from a rocky basin. 

Shaded by o'erhanging vines, - 
Peaceful as a sleeping infant 

Now its placid water shines. 



64 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 

Thus — the fairy legend telleth — 

Yonder lovely river first 
As a spirit's bridal chamber 

From its hidden sources burst; 
Not for it the small beginning, 

''Winning tribute as it flows"— 
But at once, in perfect being, 

Aphrodite-like it rose. 
Sacred unto Sprite and Fairy 

Still its lovely birth-place seems, 
And the sparkle of their presence 

On its rippling water gleams. 
Rainbow tints are o'er it glinting, 

Silver rocks around it shine, 
Whilst, like tapestry, the cresses 

All its inward chambers line. 
Every hue that autumn flingeth 

O'er the leaves that wave in air, 
Mingled with the green of summer 

Have the Spirits woven there ; 
Shining through the limpid water 

Every perfect leaflet bright 
Sparkles like a brilliant jewel, 

With an opalescent light. 
Woodland flowers of every color 

Round its rocky sides are hung, 
Whilst o'er all a misty vapor 

Like a silver veil is flung. 
Snowy lilies round it glisten, 

Shedding fragrance on the air. 
Emblems of the tricksy spirits 

Who are ever hovering there. 
'Almanitas, I have named them, 

For its meaneth "little fairy," 



The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 65 

And like Sprites they come and vanish 

From the bosom of the prairie; 
Springing after every shower 

In all seasons of the year, 
Fresh and pure as crystal dew-drops 

Do their starry blooms appear. 
Neither land nor water lilies 

But a mingling of the twain, 
Seeming from the clouds descending 

In the falling drops of rain. 
Like a shining silver ribbon 

Waving in a gentle breeze. 
Onward glides the lovely river 

Under overhanging trees, 
Sleeping now in darkest shadow 

Still and deep its water flows. 
Flashing like ten thousand diamonds, 

Laughing, leaping on it goes — 
But a magic spell is o'er it. 

Haunting all its winding way 
With the mem'ry of that wooing 

And the Spirit's Bridal Day. 



_ During the war between the States as already men- 
tioned, Mrs. Clarke wrote many patriotic poems, ex- 
pressive of the thoughts and feelings which permeated 
Southern homes, and which served to maintain the 
devotion and enthusiasm of the Confederate soldier 
in the field ; but when the war was at an end, she for- 
got all, save its blessed memories and that she had 
tried to do her duty; and it was creditable to her head 
and heart, that in the volume of "Mosses from a Roll- 
ing Stone," published in the year 1866, in which she 
collected many poems, scattered through various mag- 
azines and newspapers, she did not republish a single 
line reflecting on the conduct of our mighty adversary 
as a mass, or individually, but preserved the silence 
that gives dignity to misfortune. 

It may be pardonable, however, to except from this 
class of her writings, the two following poems, as they 
will amuse without awakening resentment." 



Stonewall's Resignation. 6% 



STONEWALL'S RESIGNATION. 

A Yankee soliloquy before the first battle of Fred- 
ericksburg. 

Well! we can whip them now, I guess, 

If Stonewall has resigned; 
General Lee in "Fighting Burnside/' 

More than his match will find. 
We've done with slow McClellan, 

Who kept us digging dirt, 
And now are ''on to Richmond," 

Where "some one will be hurt." 
Again around the rebels 

The anaconda coils. 
And east and west and north and south 

We have them in our toils. 
We'd have beat them at Manassas 

If McDowell had not sHpt, 
When he tried to leap this Stonewall 

Who don't know when he's whipt. 
We'd have laid them in the Valley 

So low they could not rise, 
But Banks must run against it 

And spill all his supplies. 



68 Stonewall's Resignation. 

But if that fool, Jeff Davis, 

Has let Stonewall resign, 
We can go on to Richmond 

By the Rappahannock Hne. 
But they say he's a shrewd fellow. 

Who knows a soldier well, 
He stood by Sydney Johnston 

Until in death he fell ; 
"If Johnston is no General, 

Then, gentlemen, I've none," 
He said to those who grumbled 

When Donelson we won ; 
And I don't believe that Jackson's 

Resignation he'll accept — 
Hello! — a rebel picket — 

How close the rascal crept! 
"Say! Johnny, is it true 

That Jackson has resinged?" 
"Well! — Yes — I reckon so — 

Heard some'n of the kind." 
"What for? Did old Jeff. Davis 

Put a 'sub' above his head?" 
"No, they took away his commissary— 

So I've heard it said." 
"Well! we are glad to hear it, 

And will tender them our thanks. 
But who was Jackson's commissary?'* 

"Your Major General Banks." 
"Confound your rebel impudence! 

He'd be very smart, indeed. 
If from supplies for one intended 

Two armies he could feed." 



The Rebel Sock. 69 



THE REBEL SOCK. 

A true episode in Seward's raid on the old ladies 
of Maryland. 

In all the pomp and pride of war 

The Lincolnite was drest, 
High beat his patriotic heart 

Beneath his armor'd vest. 
His maiden sword hung by his side. 

His pistols both were right, 
The shining spurs were on his heels. 

His coat was buttoned tight. 
A firm resolve sat on his brow, 

For he to danger went; 
By Seward's self that day he was 

On secret service sent. 
"Mount and away," he sternly cried. 

Unto the gallant band, 
Who, all equipped from head to heel. 

Awaited his command; 
"But halt, my boys — before you go, 

These solemn words I'll say, 
Lincoln expects that every man 

His duty '11 do to-day." 



70 The Rebel Sock. 

"We will, we will," the soldiers cried, 

"The President shall see, 
That we will only run away 

From Jackson or from Lee." 
And now they're off, just four-score men, 

A picked and chosen troop, 
And like a hawk upon a dove, 

On Maryland they swoop. 
From right to left — from house to house. 

The little army rides ; 
In every lady's wardrobe look 

To see what there she hides. 
They peep in closets, trunks and drawers, 

Examine every box; 
Not rebel soldiers now they seek. 

But rebel soldiers' socks ! 
But all in vain ! — too keen for them. 

Were those dear ladies there, 
And not a sock, or flannel shirt 

Was taken anywhere. 
The day wore on to afternoon. 

That warm and drowsy hour, 
When Nature's self doth seem to feel 

A touch of Morpheus' power; 
A farm-house door stood open wide. 

The men were all away. 
The ladies sleeping in their rooms. 

The children at their play; 
The house-dog lay upon the step. 

But never raised his head, 
Though crackling on the gravel walk. 

He heard a stranger's tread. 



The Rebel Sock. 71 

Old grandma in her rocking chair 

Sat knitting in the hall, 
When suddenly upon her work 

A shadow seemed to fall. 
She raised her eyes and there she saw 

Our Federal hero stand, 
His little cap was on his head, 

His sword was in his hand. 
Slowly the dear old lady rose. 

And tottering, forward came, 
And peering dimly through her "specs," 

Said, "Honey! what's your name?" 
Then, as she raised her withered hand, 

To pat his sturdy arm, 
"There's no one here but Grandmama 

And she won't do you harm. 
Come, take a seat, and don't be scared. 

Put up your sword, my child, 
I would not hurt you for the world," 

She gently said, and smiled. 
"Madam, my duty must be done 

And I am firm as rock," 
Then, pointing to her work, he said, 

"Is that a rebel sock?" 
"Yes, Honey, I am getting old 

And for hard work ain't fit, 
Though for Confederate soldiers, still, 

I thank the Lord, can knit." 
"Madam, your work is contraband 

And Congress confiscates 
This rebel sock, which I now seize 

To the United States." 



72 The Rebel Sock. 

"Yes, Honey — don't be scared — you see 

I'll give it up to you." 
Then slowly from the half-knit sock 

The dame her needles drew, 
Broke off the thread, wound up the ball 

And stuck her needles in; 
"Here — take it, child — and I to-night 

Another will begin." 
The soldier next his loyal heart 

The dear-bought trophy laid, 
And that was all that Seward got 

By this old woman's raid. 



The Tenth of May, 1866. 73 



THE TENTH OF MAY, 1866. 

Lines suggested by the address of Seaton Gales to 
the Ladies of Raleigh on the anniversary of the death 
of Stonewall Jackson. 

Oh! shed not a tear for the hero who died 

When the flag of his country was flying, 
But scatter with lilies and roses the grave 

Where he slumbers in glory undying. 
He knew not the sorrow the vanquished must 
feel 

The grief of a fruitless endeavor, 
The heart-breaking pang when the struggle was 
o'er, 

And that banner was folded forever! 

Keep tears for the nation that, conquered and 
ruined. 
Can lay o'er its heroes no tablets of stone, 
Though it writes every one on the true heart 
of woman. 
Which feels that our soldiers are never un- 
known. 



74 The Tenth of May, 1866. 

Oh ! then, let us make a fragrant ovation 

In honor of Jackson, the ides of each May, 
And with roses that bloomed as a hero lay dying 
Wreathe over the graves of his comrades that 
day. 
That their mem'ry like spring-time, forever may 
be 
Embalmed in the fragrance of flowers, 
And their graves to the hearts of our children 
unborn 
Be as dear as they now are to ours! 



The Chimes of St. PauPs. 75 



THE CHIMES OF ST. PAUL'S. 

The chimes of St. Paul's Church, Petersburg, were 
presented by a young lady of that place. Miss Anna 
May, when on her death-bed; and though uninjured 
by the shot and shell which struck the church, were 
not rung during the bombardment, except at the fune- 
rals of the militia-men who fell early in the siege. 

When first, St. Paul's, your sweet-toned chimes 

Shed music on the air. 
They seemed an angel's pleading voice. 

Which called us unto prayer. 
An angel who had left this earth 

To sing a Heavenly strain, 
But in the music of your bells 

Spoke unto us again. 
Now loud and clear, then low and sweet. 

You touched each listener's heart. 
Till every rising — falling note 

Seemed of its life a part. 
You rang a clear, a joyous peal 

The blushing bride to meet, 
Then let your softest, sweetest notes 

The baptized infant greet. 
You rang a sad, a solemn dirge 

The mourner's grief to tell. 
Then let the ransomed spirit's joy 

A glorious anthem swell, 



76 The Chimes of St. Paul's. 

That while you bore aloft the wail 

Of those who wept below, 
Sweet comfort to their bleeding hearts 

Might from your music flow. 
Alas ! your bells were silenced all 

Hushed by relentless foes, 
Though once above the battle's din 

Their solemn protest rose. 
They tolled amid the cannon's peal 

When to our doors the tiger crept 
And mothers mourned their half-grown sons 

While babes their grandsires wept. 
Yes ! let the foe in scorn exclaim, 

We robbed the cradle and the grave. 
All, all, that woman's heart could give 

Old Blandford's daughters freely gave; 
And now — when every hope is crushed 

With bleeding hearts they kneel 
And fancy that your sweet-toned chimes 

Can only requiems peal. 
Ring out, St. Paul's! ring out their woe; 

Each strain that upward floats 
Embalms their glorious martyred dead. 

In music's holiest notes. 
Ring out ! ring out, oh ! angel bells. 

While floating to the skies, 
The incense of their sacrifice 

Forever more may rise. 



The Stratagems of Love. 77 



THE STRATAGEMS OF LOVE. 

A fragment from Calderon de la Barca. 

Translated by Tenella * 

The cunning archer when he fain would bring 
Prone on the earth, a heron on the wing, 
Aims not where now the passing mark he sees, 
But, claiming helpful tribute from the breeze, 
Lets fly his shaft, so it may surer light. 
Full in its bosom's spotless, snowy white. 
The hardy, careful sailor of the main. 
He, who hath laid a yoke or set a rein 
Upon the fierce and cruel sea to bend 
Its wild and boist'rous nature to his end. 
Steers not straight onward, but with artless skill 
Deludes opposing waves and gains his will. 
The warrior who would take some fortress 

strong. 
Feels that in arms deceit is not a wrong, 
And seeks with military art and care 
By stratagem to win it unaware. 
Force yielding up to craft its vantage ground. 
First, at another fort the alarm doth sound. 

* Tenella was a pseudonym of Mrs. Clarke, used gen- 
erally in her earlier writings and frequently afterward. 



78 The Stratagems of Love. 

The hidden mine that winds its tortuous course 
E'en from the fire itself conceals its force, 
Nor lets its pregnant power be known, 
Until in blazing thunderbolts 'tis shown. 
Now, if my love aims in the realms of air 
And like tile fowler seeks its quarry there, 
Or sails a mariner upon the seas 
To tempt the doubtful fortune of the breeze; 
Or like a mine bursts forth with sudden rage. 
Its fierce and latent passion to assuage; 
Does it seem strange that I with careful art. 
Conceal the loving feelings of my heart, 
Until Love is triumphant everywhere, 
And I, on water, and in earth or air 
Shall hit or reach, or conquer or o'erthrow 
My game, my port, my fortress or my foe? 



I Wish to Love Thee. 79 



I WISH TO LOVE THEE. 
A translation from "Chants Chretiens." 

I wish to love Thee, Oh ! my God 
My King — who hath redeemed me; 

I wish to love Thee, for this Hfe 
Is bitter, Lord, away from Thee. 

I wish to love Thee, source of grace, 
For my salvation. Lord, Thou art; 

I wish to love Thee, and beseech 

That Thou wilt take my willing heart. 

I wish to love Thee, for to those 

Who love. Thy presence Thou wilt give; 

I wish to love Thee, for Thy love 
Alone, can make my soul to live. 

I wish to love Thee, that Thy light 
In splendor may upon me shine; 

I wish to love Thee, that I may 

Be watched with tenderness like thine. 

I wish to love Thee, for my soul 
A refuge hath in Thee most sure; 

I wish to love Thee, for Thou art 

The source of peace which shall endure. 



8o I Wish to Love Thee. 

I wish to love Thee all my life, 

My heart, Oh Lord! hath need of Thee; 
Then let me not forget that first, 

My Saviour, Thou hast loved me. 



Cross and Crown. 8 1 



CROSS AND CROWN. 

(Thomas a Kempis, B. II, Chap. XL) 

Many, Lord, a crown would wear 
Who refuse thy cross to bear, 
Many will Thy name confess 
While prosperity shall bless, 
Whose weak faith within them dies 
When Thy tribulations rise. 

Many find Thy work severe 
Who Thy miracles revere, 
Many with Thee bread would break, 
Few Thy cup of sufif'ring take, 
'Tis Thy comforts they desire, 
Not Thy pure baptismal fire. 

Saviour, let me bear Thy cross 
Counting neither gain nor loss, 
Love Thee, with a love so pure 
That self-love cannot endure; 
Serve Thee that my soul may live. 
Not for comforts Thou wilt give. 



82 In Memoriam. 



IN MEMORIAM. 
General Robert E. Lee, C. S. A., November 3, 187a 

The conquered banner to the skies 

To greet our Jackson rose, 
And following now that banner's lead 

Our grandest hero goes. 

Like some tall mount whose lofty peak 

Is first to catch the sun, 
And latest to reflect its glow 

When closing day is done; 

A beacon in our land he stood. 

Upon whose noble head. 
The earliest and the latest ray, 

Of every hope was shed. 

He cannot die! — On Hist'ry's page 

He lives that all may see, 
How mortal man erst here below 

May yet immortal be. 

And to the stars serenely grand 
His martyr'd soul takes flight, 

That he who was our noontide sun 
May thence illume our night. 



Clytie and Zenobia. 83 



CLYTIE AND ZENOBIA; 

OR, 

The Lily and The Palm. 

This tale of Zenobia's Court, interwoven with rich 
imagery of the Orient, needs only a fancy aroused by 
the beautiful, to discern its simple and classic style, 
and its refined and unaffected sentiment. It is as diffi- 
cult to analyze its rare essence, as it is to describe the 
subtile perfume of Clytie's emblem-flower. It charms 
and captivates the imagination, and we drink it, as we 
do a glass of generous old wine, without inquiring 
its year of vintage, or the sunny hillside where the 
grape matured. 

CANTO I. 

'Tis early morning, e'er the sun 
His golden course has yet begun; 
The pale gray dawn ascends the skies 
As struggling darkness slowly dies, 
And seems the hovering soul of Night, 
Which, e'er to Heaven it takes its flight. 
Still lingering hangs, 'tween fear and hope, 
To watch the golden portals ope. 



84 Clytie and Zenobla. 

Now, shimmering on the temple walls, 
A rosy haze reflected falls, 
Which tells the priests, who watching wait 
To hail their god in gorgeous state. 
That he propitious will appear 
To bless with smiles the opening year. 
To them that welcome roseate flush 
Is like the maiden's tell-tale blush, 
Which, rising e'er he yet appears. 
Tells that her lover's steps she hears. 
But now the crimson turns to gold 
As slow the eastern gates unfold. 
Which quickly changes into white 
Before the rising tide of light. 
Breathless, they watch it fade away, 
Then kneel to greet the god of Day. 

He comes! and on the palm-tree's crown 
A radiant smile casts brightly down ; 
The clash of timbrels fills the air, 
The priests again bow down in prayer. 
And then, in adoration, raise 
A grand triumphant hymn of praise. 
Before the dying cadence falls, 
Resounding through the temple halls. 
The vestal virgins' chorus swells, 
Like echoes from sweet fairy bells. 
And on the golden air there floats 
The softest, most voluptuous notes. 
Which tell that, darkness vanquished, now 
To love the conquering god will bow. 
And ardent smile on virgin Earth 
Until she gives his offspring birth.* 



Clytle and Zenobla. 85 



SONG. 

He comes ! a conquering god who treads 
The darkness 'neath his feet, 

The bridegroom whom the waiting Earth 
Prepares with joy to meet. 

The flowers, that all night long have wept. 

As soon as he appears 
Lift up their heads to greet the god, 

Who dries their dewy tears. 

The Heliotrope towards him turns 

All day its bright blue eyes. 
But when his smile too ardent grows 

The Morning Glory dies. 

The Rose to him alone will give 

The attar of its bloom ;^ 
His warmth, like love in virgin hearts, 

Draws out the sweet perfume. 

Like Truth the stately Lily stands 

In pure and spotless pride. 
Her snowy bells, by darkness closed, 

To sunlight open wide. 

Like Justice, see, the Tulip shuts 

Its petals until light 
Shines on the kingly flower and brings 

Its glories into sight. 



86 Clyde and Zenobla. 

The silvery mist which veils the Earth 

He gently draws aside, 
And smiles just as a bridegroom might 

When he unveils his bride. 

Smile on, smile on, O glorious god! 

Until your work is done, 
And Mother Earth shall fruitful yield 

Her offspring to the Sun : 

The royal Palm bear golden dates, 
Pomegranates clustering grow, 

While through the Nect'rine and the Peach 
The luscious juice shall flow; 

The Almond shed its ripened nuts, 

The glist'ning Orange shine. 
The purple Fig with sweetness burst. 

And Grapes hang on the vine. 

Leave to the Greek his numerous gods. 

The Syrian needs but one, 
For all the heart of man desires 

Is given by his Sun. 

Then O, while Earth with fruit and flowers 

Responds to his caress. 
Let man, by Justice, Truth, and Love, 

The power of light confess. 



But, ere the song was wholly o'er. 

The god concealed his face once more,— 



Clytie and Zenobla. 87 

A shadowy cloud before it drew, 
No longer of a rosy hue, — 
As though he only hid his face 
To smile on Earth with softened grace. 
Still darker grew the threat'ning cloud, 
While muttering thunder, deep not loud, 
Dismayed the awe-struck kneeling crowd. 
But hark! one loud terrific crash. 
One blinding zigzag light'ning flash, 
When lo ! the cloud is rent in twain, 
And sheds on Earth its gathered rain. 
And in one long, low, sobbing wail, 
In silence dies the rushing gale. 
And then, like faith obscured by doubt, 
In golden sheaves the sun burst out, 
Just caught the storm before it passed, 
And o'er the cloud a rainbow cast;^ 
Which, though to Heaven it owed its birth, 
In shining columns touched the earth, 
Where melting into one were seen 
Crimson and violet, gold and green. 
Like portals to those realms ideal 
Where all is true, but nought is real. 

The portent's meaning none may tell. 
In vain the priests essay to spell^ 
Tlie hidden mysteries of the skies. 
Laid bare alone unto the wise. 
With faces pale and looks aghast, 
They search the meaning of the blast, 
The rosy dawn so soon o'ercast. 
Do they portend the coming year 
Is bright with hope, or dark with fear? 



88 Clyde and Zenobia. 

'Tis all in vain ! no priestly eye 
Can into that dark future pry. 

And now the marriage rites are done, 

The Earth is wedded to the Sun, 

Her sacrifice is all ablaze 

With fire from his concentred rays, 

The sacred victims all have bled, 

The holy Zend Avesta's read, 

And stands erect the royal priest, 

Palmyra's king — lord of the East, 

Sprinkling the blood of bulls and rams 

Toward the City of the Palms, 

Where, sheltered 'neath their cool green shade, 

Greek portico and colonnade. 

With Persian minaret and dome, 

Rise round the aqueducts of Rome. 

Palmyra in the desert stands. 

But sheltered from its burning sands 

By wooded hills, upon whose sides 

The tiger lurks, the leopard hides; 

Far from the city they arise. 

Which, underneath soft Syrian skies 

The ''Diamond of the Desert" lies. 

An island in a sea of sand ; 

Like ancient Persian Samarcand 

For more than Eastern wealth renowned, 

With royal palm-trees nobly crowned, 

Palmyra — Tadmor — both the same,^ 

The ''City of the Palms" its name; 

Here Odenatus, king and priest, 

Reigned with his queen o'er all the East. 



Clytie and Zcnobia. Sq 

Together they a throne had won, 

Child of the desert and the Sun; 

Of Arab fire and Persian grace, 

His manly form, his faultless face, 

His warHke deeds, his great renown, 

Bespoke him worthy of that crown 

For which so bravely he had fought — 

Such noble deeds of valor wrought. 

When Persia's haughty monarch brought 

His conquering army, with one blow 

"The Arab chief" to overthrow,* 

Skilled in the arts of war and peace, 

The subtleties of Rome and Greece, 

In council wise, in action bold. 

In neither love nor hatred cold — 

A warrior stern, a lover warm. 

He chose a queen whose matchless form 

Enshrined a high yet tender heart. 

A form that might be sculptor's art 

Warmed into life by love's desire 

To feel — and not alone inspire; 

A face from poet's revery caught 

Of mingled sweetness, lofty thought; 

An eye that each emotion showed — 

Now brightly flashed, then softly glowed; 

A soul aflame with genius' fire 

To do, and not alone inspire, — 

Such was Zenobia; bright, serene, 

A loving woman — yet a queen. 

Ambition is a fearful dower 

When woman may not own its power, 



90 Clytie and Zenobia. 

Though burning with intense desire 
To feed, not quench its latent fire ; 
Conscious of power to make a name, 
Yet lacking strength to conquer fame; 
Tied down by petty cares which bind 
The body fast, yet leave the mind 
To fret and struggle in despair 
With greater ills which it must bear; 
When love, though pure and unalloyed, 
Still leaves an intellectual void, — 
A void its sweetness does not fill, 
A longing want it cannot still. 
Too often by the struggle torn, 
By many an inward conflict worn, 
A prey to doubt, the sport of fears, 
The pearl of health dissolved in tears, 
Too proud to yield, too weak to fight. 
She longs at noontide for the night. 

Love is but of man's life a part, 

It does not fill both head and heart; 

Its myrtles he would twine with bay, 

And 'mid its roses laurels lay. 

At intervals, fanned by its breeze, 

He lies at rest in Capuan ease. 

Then, cheered and strengthened for the strife, 

Enters the battle field of life. 

And there are women, who, like men. 

Need something more than love, and when 

It is not of their life the whole. 

And does not fill head, heart and soul, 

Leaving no wish that is denied, 

No longing want ungratified, 



Clytle and Zenobla. 91 

Laurels and bays they too should twine, — 
Not idly sit and hopeless pine. 
Though love is sweet, the danger's great 
When eagles stoop with doves to mate; 
They needs must soar to be content, 
And, if within a dove-cote pent. 
E'en of their love they may grow weary. 
And sigh for freedom and the aerie. 
But she who's mated with her kind, 
Who in her highest flights will find 
Just o'er her head her king-bird rise, 
Glorying in every flight she tries, 
And urging her to fields still higher, 
May feed with love ambition's fire. 
Yet make of home a peaceful nest, 
With all love's soft emotions blest. 
So thought the royal Palmyrene, 
And in his wife he sought a queen ; 
The partner of his royal schemes 
Was still the woman of his dreams. 
Though born beneath an eastern sky, 
Zenobia scorned at ease to lie, 
That indolent, voluptuous ease, 
Induced by Syria's perfumed breeze. 
Attended by her brilliant court, 
She with her lord shared every sport, 
And even in his wars took part. 
No , Parthian shot a truer dart, _ 
No Arab with more perfect skill 
Guided or checked his steed at will, 
A surer lance no Persian threw, 
A better sword no Roman drew; 



92 Clytle and Zenobia. 

Not Cleopatra held her place 

At banquet with more royal grace, 

More lightly danced, more sweetly sung, 

With brighter wit e'er armed her tongue, 

Nor Jewish Deborah judged her state 

With wisdom more profoundly great. 

Two royal lines m her were blent, — 

From Egypt's queen she claimed descent, 

And had her soft voluptuous grace, 

Her beauty both of form and face, 

Her power to fascinate and please 

All men at will with equal ease ; 

Whilst her dark eye flashed with the fire 

Inherited from Jewish sire,° 

And Miriam's spirit thrilled her soul 

Which love alone could not control. 



Upon a fiery, coal-black steed. 
Whose slender legs declare his breed. 
Whose arching neck and eye of fire 
Show Scythian dam and Arab sire, 
With fearless ease and faultless grace 
She follows now the tiger chase. 
Her battle-axe and crescent shield 
Thalestris'^ self might deign to wield; 
Her lance beside her saddle hung. 
Her Parthian bow was ready strung; 
Ne'er looked she on her throne in state 
So proudly grand, so truly great. 

In woman's heart there ever lies 
A queenly instinct, which will rise 



Clytle and Zenobla. 93 

At times, however trodden down, 

And claim its right to wear a crown : 

Then, for a moment, she will feel 

Her springy muscles turn to steel, 

And boldly do, or bravely bear 

All, all, that man himself may dare. 

It will not stay, but while it lasts. 

New beauty o'er her face it casts; 

Her head is reared with conscious pride, 

Her bosom heaves beneath the tide 

Of wakened feeling in it pent. 

And longs to give its passion vent. 

And never does this instinct rise 

To flash more brightly from her eyes 

Than when she feels her slender hand 

Can in his might her steed command. 

That 'tis her alone that guides 

The noble creature which she rides: 

Then, over every fear supreme, 

By Nature's hand she's crowned a queen. 

So felt Zenobia — shook her rein. 
And dashed across the verdant plain, 
Followed by her attendant train, 
To where, beyond its outer bounds 
Arose the forest hunting-grounds. 
And now the royal sport began, 
The noblest that is known to man. 
The prickers through the jungle beat. 
To rouse the game from its retreat, 
The hunters circling ride around 
Impatient for the bugle's sound, 



94 Clytie and Zenobia. 

Whose piercing note directs them where 
The quarry's lurking in its lair. 

It comes — a single blast and shrill, 
From half-way up the wooded hill; 
They gather round it in a ring, 
The tiger gives one gallant spring, 
And, ere they've clearly marked his den. 
Alights among the startled men. 
One instant crouching low he lies, 
The next, straight at Zenobia flies ; 
Backward her startled steed she drew, 
As at the beast her lance she threw ; 
It caught him in his downward^ sweep, 
He gathers for another leap, 
But feels his strength at once give way, 
And savage turns and stands at bay. 
Then, like an eagle on the wing. 
With lance in rest, down sweeps the king, 
But, as he poised it for the cast, 
Another, dashing rudely past. 
Pushed in his steed, and threw a dart 
Which quivered in the tiger's heart. 
But not a shout the deed applauds. 
All silent stand the Syrian lords 
Till anger in the monarch's face 
To haughty dignity gives place. 

Maeonius, who this deed had done. 
Was Odenatus' brother's son. 
And well the watching courtiers knew 
In insolence his javelin threw. 



Clyde and Zenobia. 95 

The Arab blood which hotly glowed 
Upon the monarch's cheek -ind flowed 
With quick pulsation through his veins, 
His Persian prudence soon restrains. 
He first enforced the hunter's law: 
The youth must from the chase withdraw, 
And then, deprived of arms and steed, 
A prisoner's Hfe at court must lead; 
His sovereign's presence must not seek. 
Must not with any courtier speak, 
Until the king his arms restore. 
And bid him to the chase once more. 



96 Clytle and Zenobia. 



CANTO II. 

A week has flown ; the king and court 
Are resting from the morning sport 
Upon the palace colonnade 
Beneath the bamboo's flickering shade. 
High o'er a mass of foliage green, 
With gorgeous tropic flowers between, 
A fountain shoots its sparkling spray, 
Weaving bright rainbows in its play. 
Below, the water-lily spreads 
Its flowers, like nymphs who lift their heads 
To gaze upon a scene so fair. 
And then, enraptured, linger there. 
Gliding the broad green leaves between, 
Two stately snow-white swans are seen, 
Whose every motion bears the trace 
Of that majestic haughty grace 
Jove left the fabled bird which gave 
Its form from Juno's wrath to save.'' 
High over head, his body hid, 
A peacock reared its crest amid 
The Persian apple's crimson bloom, 
Whence floats a sweetly faint perfume; 
His sinuous neck, of brilliant blue, 
Each moment changing in its hue, 



Clytie and Zenobla. 97 

As quick he turns from side to side 

His haughty head in conscious pride, 

A serpent seems, who, hid in flowers, 

Is seeking 'neath its leafy bowers 

This Eden's Eve, that he may win 

Her virgin soul to shame and sin.^ 

Here lemons breathe their sweet perfume, 

The lilac opes its purple bloom, 

Each wand'ring zephyr as it blows 

Scatters the odors of the rose, 

Or from its wings the fragrance sheds 

Gathered amid carnation beds; 

The rosy lotus spreads its flowers 

To catch the fountain's cooling showers; 

The Persian jasmine's shining stars 

Peep through the gilded lattice bars, 

Or gently fall like flakes of snow 

Upon the emerald turf below. 

Bright humming-birds dart here and there. 

Soft music floats upon the air, 

Or gently into silence dies. 

Again in liquid notes to rise. 

Now clear and sweet, then soft and low, 

Just heard above the fountain's flow, 

Whose waters louder seem to play 

Whene'er the music dies away. 

Or fainter twinkle when it swells 

As list'ning to the tale it tells. 

Fresh from the bath Zenobia lies, 

A languid beauty in her eyes. 

Which flash not now with genius' fire 

But softCvSt love alone inspire. 



98 Clytle and Zenobla. 

Around her scattered amaranths lie, 
While silken cushions heaped on high 
Support her form as she reposes 
Upon a divan stuffed with roses.^ 
Her Persian dress, which half conceals 
The beauty of her form, reveals 
Her slender feet, her instep high, 
Crossed by her sandal's silken tie. 
Attendant slaves in gorgeous dress. 
Through mountain snow the sherbet press, 
Or gently stir the perfumed air 
With fragrant fans of feathers rare; 
'Mid heaps of grapes fresh from the vine 
Stand goblets filled with Chian^^ wine, 
And golden baskets piled with fruit. 
A Grecian girl just touched her lute 
From time to time, until the king 
Turned with a smile and bade her sing; 
When clear as that soft sound that flows 
From silvery bells, her song arose. 



SONG. 

The Palm, the Palm, the royal Palm! 

Beneath its stately crown 
Hangs golden dates high over head 

Or casts them ripened down. 
The Vine, the Vine, the graceful Vine! 

Its luscious fruit conceals, 
Till purple grapes beneath its leaves 

A wooing breeze reveals. 



Clytle and Zenobla. 99 

Just so should man before the world 

In pride lift up his head, 
And let his life's bright golden deeds 

Around his feet be shed : 
While woman, like the clinging vine, 

Her sweetest gift should hide. 
And only yield when love's caress 

Shall draw the veil aside. 

"The royal palm methinks should shower 
Its golden gifts upon this flower 
Which blooms so brightly at its feet, 
Filling the air with fragrance sweet; 
Say, Clytie, shall it be, my girl, 
This sapphire ring — this pendent pearl?'* 
So spoke the king, and marked her grace, 
Her rounded form, her Grecian face, 
Her penciled brow, her neck of snow, 
Her coral lips like Cupid's bow. 
A rosy glow flushed Clytie's cheek. 
She crossed her arms but did not speak, 
Her clustering curls of chestnut hue 
With graceful gesture backward threw. 
Flashed one bright look upon the king. 
Then, smiling, took the sapphire ring. 

"I too must act the part that's mine 

And give my gift as does the vine; 

You offer jewels — better still, 

I'll let her have her woman's will ; 

Her song has served the leaves to lift, — 

Speak, Clytie, choose Zenobia's gift." 

LOfc. 



100 Clytle and Zenobia. 

"If I may ask," the maiden said, 

As gracefully she bent her head, 

"Just what I will, O queen, to-day, 

I'll for your intercession pray, — 

When you entreat no one denies : 

In yonder tower a captive lies ; 

Plead with the king that he restore 

Mseonius to his grace once more, 

Give back to-night his bow and spear, 

And bid him at the dance appear." 

Ah, Clytie! Clytie ! with love's skill 

You truly guessed your sovereign's will, 

Watched every change his count'nance knew, 

Marked every cloud that o'er it threw 

A shade of anger or of grief. 

And sought for all his ills relief. 

'Twas at his feet — not on his head — 

That you love's precious spikenard shed; 

It fell not wasted to the earth, 

For many a gentle thought had birth 

In your soft heart from love alone, 

Whose source to you was all unknown 

As was the subtle incense rare 

You burned before the idol there. 

He was your Sun — his loves but flowers 

With whom he spent his idle hours ; 

Now on the rose he cast a smile. 

Then with the lily toyed awhile, 

Inhaled the passion-flower's perfume, 

Or brushed the acacia's yellow bloom; 

Now stooped to smell the mignonette, 

Or pluck a fragrant violet: 



Clyde and Zenobla. loi 

But over every flower supreme 
Zenobia reigned, his heart's true queen. 

She too had read the monarch's heart, 
And smiled at Clytie's artless art, 
For both by truest love inspired, 
Divined what most the king desired. 
"Shine down," she said, ''in all your power, 
O genial Sun, upon this flower, 
This Heliotrope^^ who modest stands. 
And asks a favor at your hands. 
Come, grant her boon ; be it her right 
Again to arm yon captive knight." 
"I gave her," said the smiling king, 
"For her first strain my sapphire ring ; 
And if she'll sing another song 
To her the captive shall belong." 
The Grecian lightly swept the strings, 
Just as a bird might try its wings, 
Then many a sleeping echo woke. 
As rippling into song she broke. 

SONG. 

As desert birds are by the Sun 
Warmed into life within their nest*^ 

Man's tender glance will wake the love 
Which ever sleeps in woman's breast. 

And O, 'tis sweetest when first woke. 
For if the passion leaves the eyes. 

Although to live deep in the heart, 
The freshness of its beautv dies. 



102 Clytle and Zenobia. 

For, as the rosy clouds of morn 
Grow pale before the risen sun, 

Love's tenderest beauty fades away 
Before its golden noon's begun. 

"Not so, not so," Zenobia cried, 
''Woman is not so easy won ; 
We do not ope our hearts to man 

As flowers their petals to the Sun. 
More than a tender glance 'twill take 
A living love in us to wake, — 
Or else the captive in yon tower 
Had won your heart, my pretty flower." 

"Ah! is it so? and does he hope 
To pluck this blue-eyed Heliotrope, 
To win this bird who for me sings. 
Within his cage to fold her wings? 
No wonder he who'd boldly dare 
To steal a flower from my parterre, 
Or enter 'gainst me in love's race, 
Should push before me in the chase. 
What say you, Clytie, — will you weep 
If I Apollo captive keep? 
Methinks I'd better, for in truth 
I'm envious of the favored youth. 

For, as we sigh for boyhood's joys 
In manhood's strength and prime, 

My heart oft longs for love's sweet spring, 
Though in its summer-time; 

Longs once again to feel the thrill 
Of mingled fear and hope, 



Clytle and Zenobla. ^^3 

As on my lady's lily cheek 

I watch the roses ope. 
For, with yon orange-tree, I'd hang 

The bud, the fruit, the flower 
Together on love's spreading boughs, 

Had I like it the power. 
There, mingling with the ripened fruit, 

The full-blown flowers are seen 
By bursting buds that scarce have streaked 

With white teir tendre green,^^ 
Just so beside love's opening joys, 

Its pleasures pure as snow, 
I'd have its luscious tropic fruit 

In ripened sweetness glow. 

You sang of love, my pretty flower. 

And see at once I feel its power ; 

And so, methinks, my queen, you're wrong, 

In your objection to the song; 

For by one glance a woman can 

Inflame, we know, the heart of man, 

And 'tis but fair that in return 

Beneath his eye her own should bum. 

Prometheus stole from heaven its fire^* 

To animate a senseless form; 
Pygmalion^'^ prayed the powers divine 

His ivory beauty's breast to warm; 
But man, to melt a woman's heart. 

The aid of gods need not require, 
If in himself he feels the warmth 

Of passion's pure creative fire, — 
That spark divine which always glows 
When Heaven on him a soul bestows. 



104 Clytle and Zenobla. 

But give to me the silvery lute, 

I'll sing a warning 'gainst love's fruit ; 

'Tis not all sweet, but keeps concealed 
A bitterness too soon revealed." 



SONG. 

Ambition is the ripened pear, 

And friendship is the vine, 
Which even round a ruin will 

Its clinging tendrils twine. 

But love is like the luscious peach, — 

A touch its bloom destroys; 
As beautiful its blushing cheek, 

As sweet its tasted joys. 

Forever in its inmost heart 

A hidden poison lies. 
And all its sweetness is forgot 

If jealousy arise. 

So then beware, — go not too far, 

If only sweets you'd find, 
Just brush the bloom and taste the fruit, 

But leave its heart behind. 

For man too often at its core 

Meets bitterness alone. 
While many a woman breaks her teeth 

Against its heart of stone. 



Clyde and Zenobia. 105 

"Give me the pear," Zenobia said, 
And proudly raised her queenly head, — • 
"It ripens late, is not all sweet, 
Yet 'tis the fruit which I would eat : 
It hangs on high, — not like the peach, 
On lowly boughs that all may reach, 
And he who'd pluck a ripened pear 
Must bravely do, and boldly dare." 

"To you, my queen, I'll now resign 

Ambition's joys, so love's be mine. 

All fruit is ripe in its own time. 

And when my peach has passed its prime, 

Again with you I'll seek to share 

Ambition's spicy, ripened pear; 

Just now, methinks, I wish alone 

To taste my peach, — avoid its stone, — 

Enjoy life's sweets without its pain; 

Not to the dregs its goblet drain. 

But merely sip love's sparkling foam 

As, like a butterfly, I roam 

From flower to flower, and only rest 

A moment on each perfumed breast. 

You, Clytie, are the clinging vine. 

But sweetest grapes yield strongest wine, 

And oft in love a friendship ends, 

Though lovers rarely change to friends. 

xA.nd you, my queen, the whole combine, — 

Ambition's pear and friendship's vine. 

Love's luscious peach, whose bitter stone 

To me has never yet been shown ; 

My stately palm, — my attar rose, 

Whose petals to my love unclose, 



io6 Clytle and Zenobla. 

The crown imperial of my life, 

My royal queen, my loving wife, 

My amaranth and my asphodel,^® 

On whom my thoughts in death shall dwell. 

Go, Zabdas, ope the prison door 

And freedom to yon youth restore ; 

Bid him appear at this night's dance, 

And there receive his sword and lance. 

Clytie, the sapphire meaneth hope, 

Give it to him, my Heliotrope ; 

I free the captive from my chain, 

But bid you bind him fast again." 

While thus of love the monarch spoke, 
Its light on Clytie's heart first broke, 
And by the flash there stood revealed 
The passion 'neath life's flowers concealed. 
With quivering lip and blushing cheek 
She bowed her head but did not speak. 
'Tis sweet to love and know it not, — 

Sweeter, to give the heart away ; 
But sharp the pang when woman finds 

Unsought her love has gone astray. 
And there are hearts — true, loyal hearts 

Which to be given will not wait, 
But give themselves most treacherously, 

Nor know the gift until too late; 
Too late the tendrils of their love 

With gentle touches to untwine, 
And they must wrench the branches from 

The living body of the vine ; 
Break every tie, however strong. 



Clytle and Zenobia. 107 

Sever each clinging link so frail, 
And tear the vine from its support, 

Though in the dust its branches trail. 
This Clytie felt she now must do 
If to herself she would be true. 
Hers was a soft, a loving heart, 
Of which ambition held no part : 
Each fibre was with love enwrought. 
It ruled each act, and shaped each thought. 
Give her but love, her lute, her flowers, 
And happy were her waking hours ; 
No dream of fame disturbed her sleep. 
No waking vigil did she keep. 
When thoughts went surging through her brain 
She strove to grasp and then retain; 
She never felt that strange vague sense 
Of keen desire, yet impotence. 
These thoughts and fancies to control 
And through her art breathe out her soul, — 
That artist soul that must find vent, 
Or restless pines in discontent; 
Must speak in music, painting, rhyme, 
In sculpture, or in deeds sublime; 
That's not content to imitate 
But strives forever to create. 
And ever feels it can do more 
Yet never reaches where 'twould soar. 
But finds an unseen net-work break^^ 
Each upward flight it fain would take. 
To love was Clytie's only art, 
And nobly did she act her part. 
For softest hearts may yet be strong 
To do the right, avoid the wrong; 



lo8 Clytie and Zenobia. 

Love's genial sun with tender glow 
May melt, 'tis true, their virgin snow 
And shine on beauties hid below; 
But tenderest love's always allied 
To sense of honor and to pride. 



Clyde and Zenobia. I09 



CANTO III. 

The music caught the captive's ear; 
He paused awhile its notes to hear, 
Then, nearer to the casement drew 
Where he the palace court might view. 
Fair was the scene on which he gazed, 
Why starts he back like one amazed? 
Why stamp his foot and flush with rage, 
Then, like a tiger in his cage, 
With rapid step pace to and fro 
Until his cheek has ceased to glow, 
And all the color in his face 
To ashen pallor gives its place? 
A passing rage the blood will start 
In quick pulsations from the heart, 
And send it bounding through each vein. 
The breast to heave, the cheek to stain ; 
And man, to give such passion vent, 
Will strike a blow without intent, 
And all its raging fury's spent. 
But deadly anger deeper lies. 
No crimson flush from it will rise. 
Back to its source the blood will flow, 
The pulse beats full, — not fast nor slow, 
While to the heart the head will lend 
Cool craft and power to gain its end. 



no Clytie and Zenobia. 

The deadliest passion of the heart 
At once may into being start, 
And jealousy be born of Love, 
As from the teeming brain of Jove 
Minerva sprang in all her might, 
Full-grown and ready armed for fight. 
Anger with tenderest love is felt, 
Though into sorrow soon 'twill melt; 
But jealousy can know no trust. 
Is never generous, never just. 
Hatred man turns against his foes, 
But in his jealous rage he throws 
His keenest, swiftest, deadliest dart 
Against the idol of his heart ; 
But if in woman's breast it burns 
Her wrath against her rival turns. 
When with his genial smile, the king 
To Clytie gave his sapphire ring, 
Maeonius caught the speaking look 
With which the gracious gift she took; 
It set his Arab blood on fire 
With deadly jealousy and ire. 
Long had it been his earnest hope 
To win and wear the HeHotrope, 
To turn on him those blue eyes bent 
Where'er the king his sunshine sent; 
For with a lover's instinct true. 
He soon her latent passion knew. 
And flushed with rage whene'er the king 
Bade her for his amusement sing. 
Nor could he, as he longed to do, 
Taunt Clytie with the love he knew; 



Clyde and Zenobia. lU 

In his despair he sometimes tried ; 
But on his tongue the sentence died. 

Magicians, in the olden days, 
Whene'er a demon they would raise, 
Drew charmed circles on the floor 
Which evil spirits passed not o'er : 
Safe from their power within this ring 
O'er their familiars they could fling 
Their wondrous spells, and at their will 
A raging tempest raise or still ; 
But if they passed that barrier frail, 
Their art was then of no avail ; 
The might of hell they could not stem, 
Its demons fierce had power o'er them. 
'Tis thus with woman : man ne'er leaps 
Her charmed circle while she keeps 
Within its sheltering border line. 
Which he can feel though not define; 
But let her once that line step o'er. 
And she can rule him then no more; 
The demon raised she cannot still, 
And she must bend before its will. 

In such a circle Clytie stood, 

In all the might of womanhood. 

And he but loved her all the more 

That he its line could not pass o'er. 

The siogle step he could not take, 

The magic circle dared not break. 

And tinge sweet Clytie's cheek with shame 

By giving to her love a name. 



112 Clytle and Zenobia. 

But 'gainst the king so oft he turned 
The jealous rage with which he burned, 
That well the watching courtiers knew 
Why that discourteous lance he threw; 
And those whose restless discontent 
In change of sovereigns found a vent, 
Would fan the flame and urge that he, 
The king removed, might monarch be. 
To such base schemes Mseonius ne'er 
Had lent before a list'ning ear ; 
Now evil over good prevailed, 
His manly cheek before it paled: 
But 'twas not horror nor dismay 
That sent the crimson flush away — 
His prison bonds alone he felt 
While Clytie to his rival knelt, 
And freedom, granted in her name, 
A deeper insult yet became. 
' Full well he knew just where to find 
A trait'rous, disaffected mind. 
And when the evening rites were o'er, 
Before a trait'rous priest he swore 
Revenge for all his wrongs he'd take, 
And kill the king for Clytie's sake. 

Now plainly can that priest unfold 
The event the New Year's storm foretold : 
The storm must come, but 'mid its rain 
The bow of hope shines bright again, 
And these full sheaves of golden light 
Proclaim Palmyra's future bright. 
"Strike ! strike ! O royal youth," he cried ; 
"Strike for kingdom and a bride! 



Clyde and Zenobia. 113 

And let to-morrow's rising sun 

Behold the battle fought and won !'* 

"It shall! and then Palmyra's throne 

And Clytie, too, will be my own; 

She'll surely not refuse a crown 

If at her feet I cast it down; 

And on my unsheathed dagger swear 

The diadem I will not wear 

If she refuse my throne to share!" 

So spake Mseonius. Half aside 

The crafty priest to him replied, 

"The Heliotrope turns to the Sun, 

And, when Palmyra's crown is won, 

I prophesy the blue-eyed flower 

Will turn to you in that bright hour. 

But be not rash, we've much to fear ; 

To-night receive your sword and spear, 

To-morrow use your dagger here. 

The palace guards we cannot win, 

But once the temple gates within, 

The king is wholly in our power; 

Slay him — and then the throne and flower!" 

'Tis night, and from the palace walls 

A brilliant flood of radiance falls, 

Which bathes the festive scene below 

In one continued golden glow. 

Gay wreaths of flowers are twined around 

The stately marble columns, crowned 

With sculptured palm-leaves far outspread 

In graceful arches overhead. 

The painted ceiling showed the Sun, 

His daily race not yet begun; 



114 Clytie and Zenobla. 

His fiery coursers strong as fleet 

Trample the darkness 'neath their feet, 

Impatient rosy Morn to greet, 

Who with one hand day's gate unbars. 

While with the other, o'er the stars 

She draws a golden veil of light, 

And hides the beauties of the night. 

More brilliant still the scene beneath, — 

Tliere sylph-like maids twine Uke a wreath 

Around their queen, who, in the pride 

Of regal beauty, sits beside 

The king upon Palmyra's throne. 

Which might of arms had made their own. 

A silvery veil was round her flung. 

Which, like a misty vapor hung 

Before the sun, did but reveal 

The beauty it could not conceal, 

And heightened the seductive charms 

Of her fair neck and ivory arms. 

Amid its folds she seemed to be 

Venus arising from the sea. 

Whose snowy foam still round her lay 

All sparkling with its diamond spray. 

Two pages, dressed as Cupids, bore 

Her sea-green train, which swept the floor, 

While on her brow a crown she wore. 

Without, the light a net-work weaves 
Across the deep-green orange-leaves, 
From colored lamps amid them hung 
Which o'er the sparkling fountains flung 
A glow, that, as it caught their showers. 
Seemed that of fire-flies hid in flowers. 



Clyde and Zenobia. 115 

The starry jasmine's nightly bloom 

Sheds on the air its sweet perfume, 

While from the water-lily's cup 

A spicy odor's wafted up, 

A subtle fragrance rich as sweet, 

Crushed out beneath Night's hurrying feet, 

As o'er the tropic scene she sped. 

Nor came with twilight's lingering tread, 

Majestic, quiet, calm, and slow, 

As in the colder climes of snow; 

But with a flexile tiger grace 

Leaped from the sunset's warm embrace, 

And sprang at once upon the scene 

To reign till morn its star-crowned queen. 

Across the court Mseonius sped. 

Nor marked the beauty round him spread; 

The plot was laid — the guards are won, 

And, in the Temple of the Sun, 

He who would wear Palmyra's crown 

Next morn must strike her monarch down. 

But nought restrains a jealous man : 

A single word destroyed the plan 

Laid with such subtle, crafty art, 

By raising in Mseonius' heart 

A fiend, born of his jealous hate. 

Who would not for his vengeance wait. 

The culprit, ere he joined the dance. 

Must from the king receive his lance; 

The monarch, as Mseonius knelt, 

A dagger drew from his own belt, 

And smiling, said 'twas Clytie's right 

Again to arm the pardoned knight; 



Ii6 Clytie and Zenobla. 

**To her, sir captive, you belong, 
She won your freedom with a song. 
And lips that ne'er can sue in vain 
Have broken with a word your chain/' 

It was his queen the monarch meant, 

But all Maeonius' thoughts were bent 

On Clytie, and in jealous ire 

Again his blood flowed liquid fire; 

And, like a tiger in his spring. 

He threw himself upon the king, 

And, ere his fury could be stayed, 

Sheathed in his heart the murd'rous blade. 

One moment o'er his foe he hung, 

That moment Clytie 'tween them sprung. 

Too late the deadly blow to stay 

Or even turn its force away. 

Dead from his throne the king sank down. 

And tottering fell Palmyra's crown. 

Zenobia's blood with horror froze. 

"So perish all Maeonius' foes !" 

He shouts, and holds the reeking steel 

High o'er her head, ere she can feel 

Aught but a woman's speechless fear 

At death so awful and so near. 

A drop of blood falls on her cheek, — - 

It breaks the spell and she can speak; 

Tossing her snowy arms on high, 

From her pale lips there burst a cry 

Of mingled anguish and dismay; 

Then, like a lioness at bay 

She turns, and seeks in queenly rage 

The grief of woman to assuage. 



Clytie and Zenobla. 117 

At once she knew that not alone 
Had he dared thus assail the throne, 
And nerved herself to meet the fight, 
Avenge her wrong — maintain her right. 

"Some of you staunch the blood," she said ; 
"You, Clytie, raise the royal head. 
The king is wounded, nothing more. 
Ho ! guards, I charge you keep the door ; 
Remove yon traitor from our sight, 
And see he dies this very night." 

"Methinks this is a hasty thing: 

He is the nephew of the king. 

Or, if he's dead. Lord of the East." 

So spoke aloud the trait'rous priest. 

"If he were dead I still am queen 

To every loyal Palmyrene, 

And it should be my earliest care 

To guard my throne. My lords, beware! 

Traitors are here ; I know them well, 

Although their names I do not tell ; 

But listen: all who intercede 

For yon vile wretch, or even plead 

That I till morn for vengeance wait, 

I doom at once to share his fate." 

She looked so lovely, yet so grand, 
So much the queen born to command, 
So worthy of the crown and throne 
Which she so boldly called her own, 
That every loyal heart was thrilled 
And with chivalric reverence filled. 



1 1 8 Clyde and Zenobia. 

One moment by her beautiy awed 
They stood, and then with one accord, 
Burst into shouts despite the priest, 
And hailed her Sovereign of the East. 
Then, as the traitors stood dismayed, 
They heard upon the colonnade 
The measured tramp of troops advance; 
And fully armed with sword and lance, 
The royal guard through every door 
Began its steady streams to pour. 

Two lords had on Mseonius sprung 
When o'er the queen in wrath he hung; 
He strove to shake them off in vain, — 
They held him till that martial train 
Swept round the throne with measured tread 
To guard the living and the dead. 
Then, as the crowd was cleared away 
From where his murdered kinsman lay, 
Beside that prostrate form he sees 
Clytie upon her bended knees : 
As o'er the dead in grief she hung 
With fiercest rage his heart was wrung. 
Was it for this he vengeance sought, 
For this that deed of murder wrought, 
To see her kneeling prostrate there 
Abandoned unto love's despair? 
Sharp was the pang his spirit knew, 
For sense of suffering keener grew 
As hope within his bosom died, 
"Now welcome, death," he sternly cried, 
"To end at once this bitter strife — 
No pang for me so sharp as life." 



Clytle and Zenobia. 119 

Then from his captors broke away, 
Caught up the dagger where it lay, 
And plunging it in his own side, 
Fell down at Clytie's feet, and died. 

To grief Zenobia now gave way, 
Nor sought the bitter tide to stay ; 
The queen avenged, the woman wept. 
And neither tears nor vengeance slept; 
For ere the funeral rites were done, 
She, as the priestes of the Sun, 
And sovereign monarch of the East, 
Passed sentence on the trait'rous priest. 
She was Palmyra — woman's grief 
In royal power sought relief; 
Secure as when she shared a throne 
Queen of the East she reigned alone, 
Inscribed her name on history's page, 
And shone, the woman of her age. 

But Clytie, like a fading flower, 
Drooped from that fearful, fatal hour, 
When at the queen's command she raised 
The royal head, and wildly gazed 
Into that face which always wore 
For her a genial smile before. 
They thought her dead, but though alive. 
The shock she did not long survive; 
For ere the palm-tree from its crown 
Another withered leaf cast down,^^ 
The rose its monthly blossoms shed. 
The water-lily drooped its head, — 



120 Clyde and Zenobla. 

The orange-buds had burst in bloom 

To deck fair Clytie for the tomb; 

The bride of Death she calmly slept 

While round her bier young maidens wept, 

As they with loving fingers twined 

A wreath her marble brow to bind. 

Singing, in voices sweet and low, 

A solemn dirge of wailing woe. 

DIRGE. 

The Heliotrope is withered now, 

Her god-like Sun has set; 
But though Death's garlands bind her brow 

His eyes with tears are wet : 

He weeps, he weeps to take the prize 

That love alone has won ; 
Though on her bier the maiden lies. 

Her soul is with the Sun. 

O! Death, the victory is not thine 

When life for love we give — 
And long as yon bright sun shall shine 

The Heliotrope will live; 

Will live in other hearts to bloom, 

For love can never die, 
But sheds on earth its sweet perfume. 

Eternal as the sky. 



Notes for Clytle and Zenobia. 121 



NOTES FOR CLYTIE AND ZENOBIA. 

^Among the most remarkable ruins of Palmyra are 
those of the Temple of the Sun, which planet was 
worshipped in Persia and Syria. The Magi, or priests 
of the Sun, were divided into three orders, — the first 
consisted of the inferior priests, who conducted the 
ordinary ceremonies of religion, the second presided 
over the sacred fire, and the third was the Archimagus 
or high-priest. The office of priest was generally held 
by the reigning sovereign ; the Roman Emperor Helio- 
gabalus had himself made a priest of the Sun, and in- 
troduced its worship at Rome. Strabo relates that 
"The altars of the Magi were attended by priests who 
daily renewed the sacred fire, accompanying the cere- 
mony with music !" The new year, which fell with 
the Syrians in spring, was celebrated with great pomp, 
and the rising of the sun eagerly watched for by the 
priests, who foretold from the appearance of the heav- 
ens then the leading events of the year. Bulls, rams, 
and cocks were sacrificed to the sun, and vestal vir- 
gins attended in the temple. Heliogabalus gave great 
offense by marrying one of these virgins. Zoroaster 
was a reformer of the Magians, and collected their doc- 
trines and rules of worship in the sacred books of the 
Zend, called the Zend-Avesta. See Gibbon, and Biog- 
raphie Universelle, Ancienne et Moderne, vol. lii. p. 
434; also. Oracles of Zoroaster. 

" The attar, or otto, of roses can only be extracted 
from roses that have bloomed in clear dry weather. — 
Tournefort's Voyage du Levant. 

_ ' The oriental name of Palmyra was Tadmor, which 
signifies the same as Palmyra, "the place of the palm- 
trees." See Josephus. 

* The accounts of the origin of Odenatus differ. 
Agathias makes him of mean descent, but other writers 
state that he exercised hereditary sway over the Arab 
tribes in the vicinity of Palmyra. The manner in 
which he attained to the supremacy of Palmyra is not 



122 Notes for Clytie and Zenobla. 

clearly stated, but he succeeded his father, Septimius 
Airanes, and raised Palmyra to a first-class power. 
After the defeat and capture of Valerian by Sapor, 
king of Persia, Odenatus, to propitiate the conqueror, 
sent him a magnificent present and a respectful letter ; 
Sapor haughtily ordered the gift to be thrown into the 
Euphrates, and replied to the letter in terms of indig- 
nant contempt. Odenatus immediately took the field, 
and defeated Sapor, driving him to the gates of Ctesi- 
phon. — Biographie Universelle, vol. xxx. p. 494, Art. 
"Saint Martin." 

" "Modern Europe has produced several illustrious 
women who have sustained with glory the weight of 
empire ; nor is our own age destitute of such distin- 
guished characters. But, if we except the doubtful 
achievements of Semiramis, Zenobia, the celebrated 
queen of Palmyra and the East, is perhaps the only 
female whose superior genius broke through the servile 
indolence imposed on her sex by the climate and man- 
ners of Asia. She claimed her descent from the Mace- 
donian kings of Egypt, equaled in beauty her ancestor 
Cleopatra, and far surpassed that princess in chastity 
and valor. Zenobia was esteemed the most lovely, as 
well as the most heroic of her sex. She was of dark 
complexion, her teeth were of pearly whiteness, and 
her large black eyes sparkled with uncommon fire, tem- 
pered by the most attractive sweetness ! Her voice was 
strong and harmonious. Her manly understanding was 
strengthened and adorned by study. She was not igno- 
rant of the Latin tongue, but possessed in equal perfec- 
tion the Greek, the Syriac, and the Egyptian languages. 
This accomplished woman gave her hand to Odenatus, 
who from a private station had raised himself to the 
dominion of the East. She soon became the friend 
and companion of a hero. In the intervals of war Ode- 
natus passionately delighted in the exercise of hunt- 
ing ; he pursued with ardor the wild beasts of the des- 
ert, — lions, panthers, and bears ; and the ardor of Zeno- 
bia in this dangerous amusement was not inferior to 
his own. She inured her constitution to fatigue, dis- 
dained the use of a covered carriage, generally ap- 
peared on horseback in a military habit, and sometimes 



Notes for Clytle and Zenobia. 123 

marched several miles on foot at the head of the 
troops. 

"The success of Odenatus was in a great measure 
ascribed to her incomparable prudence and fortitude. 
Their splendid victories over the Great King, whom 
they twice pursued as far as the gates of Ctesiphon, 
laid the foundations of their united fame and power. 

"Invincible in war, the Palmyrenian prince was cut 
off by domestic treason, and his favorite amusement 
was the cause, or at least the occasion of his death. 

"His nephew Mseonius presumed to dart his javelin 
before that of his uncle ; and, though admonished of 
his error, repeated the insolence. As a monarch and 
a sportsman, Odenatus was provoked, took away his 
horse, a mark of infamy among the barbarians, and 
chastised the rash youth by a short confinement. The 
offense was soon forgotten, but the punishment was 
remembered ; and Maeonius, with a few daring asso- 
ciates, assassinated his uncle in the midst of a great 
entertainment. But he only obtained the pleasure of 
revenge by this bloody deed ; he had scarcely time to 
assume the title of Augustus before he was sacrificed 
by Zenobia to the memory of her husband. With the 
assistance of his most faithful friends she immediately 
filled the throne, and governed with manly counsels 
Palmyra, Syria, and the East above five years." 

"According to some Christian writers, Zenobia was 
a Jewess." — Gibbon's Roman Empire, chap, xi., with 
notes. 

® Thalestris, a queen of the Amazons, who marched 
with three hundred women twenty-five-days' journey 
through hostile nations to meet Alexander. — Justinian, 
xii. 3. 

"Ducit Amazonidum lunatis agmina peltis." — Virgil, 
A en. i. 490. 

^ Jupiter, to avoid the jealous wrath of Juno, ap- 
proached Leda under the form of a svv^an. 

' The peacock is an Indian bird, and, according to 
Theophrastus, was introduced into Greece from the 
East. 

• The Syrians scattered amaranth flowers over their 
couches, that they might inhale the perfume, and used 



124 Notes for Clytie and Zenobla. 

pillows stuffed with dried rose-leaves. — Stephen's 
Persia. 

" The wine of Chios, so much esteemed by the an- 
cients, is still held in great repute. The Chians are 
said to have first known the art of cultivating the vine, 
which was taught them by CEnopion, king of Chios 
and son of Bacchus and Ariadne. — Mythologie Noel et 
Chapsal. 

" Clytie was a nymph beloved by Apollo, who 
changed her to a heliotrope, a blue flower, abundant 
in the Grecian Isles, which turns ever towards the sun. 
— Mythologie Noel et Chapsal. 

" The ostrich hides its eggs in the sand, and leaves 
them to be hatched by the heat of the sun. 

" The orange-tree in the West Indies bears fruits, 
buds, and blossoms all at one time on the same bough. 

" Prometheus had formed a figure of clay, and 
Minerva beholding it offered her aid in procuring any- 
thing in heaven which might contribute to its perfec- 
tion, and bore him to heaven on her shield that he 
might judge for himself what he required. Seeing 
everything animated by the celestial heat, he secretly 
applied his ferula to the wheel of the sun's chariot, 
and thus stole some of the fire, with which he animated 
his figure of clay. Jupiter, to punish the theft, bound 
him to a rock, with vultures ever gnawing his liver. 

" Pygmalion, a celebrated sculptor of the island of 
Cyprus, became so enamored with an ivory statue of 
his own making, that he prayed Venus and the gods 
to animate it, which they did. — Ovid, Met. x. 9. 

" Asphodels were planted by the Persians in ceme- 
teries, because they believed the spirits of the departed 
delighted in the perfume. — Dictionnaire Botanique. 

" "Car le poete est un oiseau ; 
Mais captif, ses elans se brisent 
Contre un invisible reseau." 

Theophile Gautier. 
" The Palma Real Oreodoxa, or Royal Palm, losts 
one leaf from the lower part of its crown every month, 
while a new one springs from the upper part to sup- 
ply its place. — Dr. Turnbull. 



The Organ. 125 



THE ORGAN. 

A Legend from the German of Herder. 

Oh, temple by God's breath inspired ! 

Who first contrived your wond'rous frame, 
Whence voices of all living things 

Together praise Jehovah's name? 
Now, wailing misereres shed 

A heart appaUing groan abroad ; 
Then plaintive flute and cymbals clang, 

With martial clarion's blast accord. 
The hautboy's scream blends boldly with 

A nation's shout of jubilee, 
Whilst over all the trumpet's notes 

Exultant tell of victory. 

From piping reed the strain ascends 

To timbrel's thunder. Hark ! the dead 
Are stirring, graves are opening — 

'Tis the last judgment's trumpet dread! 
How hovering hang the expectant tones 

On all creation's outspread wings. 
Jehovah comes ! His thunders roll 

Before Him bow all living things. 



126 The Organ. 

Now, in soft-breathing words he speaks 
To human hearts that trembhng — awed, 

Bow down in prayer, then with one voice 
Shout Hallelujah to the Lord. 

The son of Maia strung the lyre, 
Apollo tuned the joyous lute, 

While from the Shepherd's simple reed 
Pan formed the sweetly plaintive flute; 

A great Pan was he who gave 
Creation's glorious song a voice, 

And let the yearning human soul 
Hear earth and sea with Heaven rejoice. 



Disdaining music of the strings 

Cecilia — noblest Roman maid — 
That she might hear Creation's song, ^ 

Deep in her heart with fervor prayed: 
''Oh ! let me hear that song of praise 

Those holy three sang in the fire. 
Oh ! let my longing soul drink in 

The music of the Heavenly choir." 
Lo! by her side an angel stands. 

Who oft appeared to her in prayer; 
He touched her ear — entranced she heard 

Creation's song roll through the air. 
Stars, sun and moon, the Heavenly host — 

The rolling seasons — day and night — 
The ice and snow — the frost and storm — 

The dew and rain, darkness and light — 
Mountains and hills and all green things — 

Fountains and streams, seas, rocks and wood, 



The Organ. 127 

The souls in Heaven and tribes of earth. 
Praised God the merciful and good! 

In adoration she sank down, 

"And now, Oh ! angel, let me hear 

The echo of this song," she cried, 
"In music meet for mortal ear." 

With speed an artist then he sought 

Whom Bazaleel's rapt soul inspired, 
Measure and number in his hand 

In silence placed, and then retired. 
An edifice of harmonies 

Cathedral-like he reared, whence rang 
In one according voice of praise 

The Gloria which the angels sang; 
Then, all great Christendom intoned 

Her lofty credo, blessed tie 
Together binding human souls ; 

But when at sacrament the cry 
He comes ! He comes ! rolled through the air 

The spirits of the saints above 
Came down, and in devotion took 

The offering of Eternal Love. 
Earth and Heaven became one choir, 

The sinner at the temple door 
Quaked, when he seemed to hear the trump 

Proclaim, the day when Hope is o'er. 

Cecilia gratefully rejoiced. 

For she had found the saint's communion 
The Christian unity desired 

By all who seek the Spirit's union. 



128 The Organ. 

''What shall I call," said she, "this stream 

"Of harmony which bears the soul 
Upon its waves to that broad sea 

Where all Eternity doth roll?" 
"Call it," the angel said, "what thou 

In prayer didst yearningly desire. 
The Organ of that mighty soul 

Which sleeps in all and doth aspire 
In richest labyrinth of sound 

The hymn of Nature to intone 
And, in devotion echo back 

Creation's song before the Throne." 



The Guard Around the Tomb. 129 



THE GUARD AROUND THE TOMB. 

What is this solemn sound we hear? 

It breaks upon a nation's ear 

Like Ocean's sob upon the shore, 

The wail of storms whose wrath is o'er. 

From proud Virginia's mountains grand 

It swells through all our Southern land. 

A country mourning o'er its slain, 
Who gave their lives, and not in vain, 
Since in its heart their mem'ry blooms 
Fresh as these flowers upon their tombs. 
Their toil is o'er, their labors cease. 
In war they died, but died for peace. 

They bravely fought and nobly fell. 
And Fame their glorious deeds shall tell. 
When she decrees a crown of bay 
No power on earth her hand can stay, 
And on these graves a wreath is laid 
No storm can change, no time can fade. 

Where she has placed this deathless crown 
Let woman cast her roses down, 
And Love and Fame forever stand 
A guard of honor, hand in hand, 
Around these graves where heroes lie 
Who fought for right nor feared to die. 
May 10, 1872. 



130 Oremus. 



OREMUS. 

The following deserves to be classed among the best 
devotional poems of the language. It has all the sweet- 
ness of Keble, with a strength all its own. It com- 
bines the logic which convinces with the sympathy 
that converts, and we feel compelled to yield to its 
solemn and irresistible appeal. 

When dark the road and sore the feet, 

When desolate the way, 
When needing strength, and hope, and faith, 

O, brethren, "Let us pray." 

Prayer is the culture of the wheat, 

The weeding of the tares, 
And oft in prayer an angel we 

Might shelter unawares. 

A heartfelt wish that we could pray 

Is in itself a prayer. 
For 'tis the gasping of the soul 

For freer, purer air. 

Dost thou object "unasked He gives"? 

Yes, brother, this is true. 
But e'en His blessings blessing need, 

To make them blessed to you. 



Oremus. 131 

"I may ask wrong, He'll give what's best, 

I will confide in this." 
O, brother, he who asks for nought 

Must always ask amiss. 

"What will be will be" sayest thou? 

That rests with Him not thee, 
It is enough — He gives thee power 

To will what thou shalt be. 

He never asks, "Wilt thou be made?" 

When He creates a soul, 
But to that soul He gives a will 

Then asks, "Wilt thou be whole?" 

"He knows my wants, why should I pray 

This boon from Him to gain?" 
We know not why, but He has said 

"Ask — and thou shalt obtain." 

He might have made the marriage wine 

At Cana with a word. 
The water by the servants brought 

Was nothing to the Lord. 

What He commands that we should do. 

And if our souls decline 
He'll leave them to their emptiness 

And make no water wine; 

Then when He bids thee fill the pots, 

O, fill them to the brim, 
And fear not that thou ask too much, — 

Thou canst not weary Him. 



132 A Legend of St. Augustine. 



W 



A LEGEND OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 

With study spent, and worn with care, 
A Bishop wandered by the sea; 

A rev'rend father of the church 
And skilled in its disputes was he. 

Long had he sought to know that truth, 
Whose height no human mind can reach, 

And earnest prayer for light divine 
On what he should, and should not teach. 

What was the God-head, over which 
The subtle Greek, in keen debate, 

Had wrangled until Christian love 

Seemed almost quenched in deadly hate? 

As wrapped in thought he slowly walked. 
Scarce conscious of the cooling breeze. 

Upon the ocean's sandy shore 
A little child at work he sees. 

"What dost thou, little one?" he cried. 
As with a conch shell in his hand, 

The child bore water from the sea 
To fill a cell scooped in the sand. 



A Legend of St. Augustine. 133 

"Just what you vainly strive to do," 
With solemn look the child replied, 

"I seek to drain the ocean dry 
To fill a hollow at its side. 

"As well do this, as try to crowd 

Infinite truth in finite mind. 
Or, with thy puny human power, 

The secret things of God to find." 

Started to hear from childish lips, 
A truth so pointed yet so grand. 

The Bishop bowed his head and said, 
"Before Thee, Lord, rebuked I stand." 

But when he raised his eyes, and saw 
The child had vanished from the beach. 

He knew an angel had been sent 
To him, this mighty truth to teach. 



134 Tidal Bells. 



TIDAL BELLS. 

Instead of lighthouses, bells are hung on the shoals 
of Penobscot Bay, in such a way as to be rung by 
the motion of the water as it sweeps over the sunken 
rocks, and thus warn of their proximity. 

'Twas in the glorious month of June, 
As morn was breaking still and gray. 

That first I heard the tidal bells 
Ring out upon Penobscot Bay. 

Green hills in softened distance rose, 

Placid the water as a lake ; 
While waiting for the sun's first smile 

Its dimpling isles seemed scarce awake. 

Then flushed the crimson glow of day, 
The misty clouds their pinions furled, 

Like guardian angels who all night 

Had watched above the sleeping world. 

And floating now toward the east 
Had gathered there in grand array. 

To enter when the portal ope'd 

Through which passed out the coming day. 



Tidal Bells. 135 

And as they caught the glorious light 
Of Paradise that through it streamed, 

Its golden glow, its rosy flush 

Reflected from their pinions gleamed. 

So fair that scene, so still, so calm, 
I did not think of danger there, 

But thought those solemn warning bells 
A call to early morning prayer. 

But as we glided swiftly on, 

Ere one had in the distance died 

Another caught the falling note, 
Rung by the surging of the tide. 

It was indeed a call to prayer, 

A call rung out by Nature's hand, 

Not in a chapel raised by man, 
But in her own cathedral grand. 

In solemn awe I bowed my head, 

And from my restless heart there rest 

A silent prayer, that tidal bells 

Might ring for me until life's close. 

Might softly sound when all was calm, 
To warn of hidden rock or shoal, 

And loudly ring when passion's tide 
Was surging high within my soul. 

For ah ! as down life's varied stream 
We madly rush or gently float. 

We all may hear its tidal bells, 
If we but list their warning note. 



1^6 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 



CLEOPATRA'S SOLILOQUY. 

This poem first appeared in the Galaxy of April, 1877. 
It is amenable to the criticism of that class which would 
have the limits of Art less broad than the limits of Na- 
ture. Mrs. Clarke, in a note to the writer, says of it: 
"I meant it to be a picture of passionate love in a 
woman who did not feel the restraints of society, or 
necessity of concealing her passion." In that light, 
doubtless, it will be read, and its classic beauty recog- 
nized as being within the allowed domain of creative 
art. 

What care I for the tempest? What care I for 

the rain? 
If it beat upon my bosom, would it cool its burn- 
ing pain — 
This pain that ne'er has left me since on his 

heart I lay, 
And sobbed my grief at parting as I'd sob my 

soul away? 
O Antony ! Antony ! Antony ! when in thy circling 

arms 
Shall I sacrifice to Eros my glorious woman's 

charms, 
And burn life's sweetest incense before his sacred 

shrine 
With the living fire that flashes from thine eyes 

into mine? 



Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 137 

when shall I feel thy kisses rain down upon my 

face, 

As, a queen of love and beauty, I He in thine em- 
brace, 

Melting — melting — melting, as a woman only can 

When she's a willing captive in the conquering 
arms of man. 

As he towers a god above her, and to yield is not 
defeat, 

For love can own no victor if love with love shall 
meet? 

1 still have regal splendor, I still have queenly 

power, 

And — more than all — unfaded is woman's glori- 
ous dower. 

But what care I for pleasure? What's beauty to 
me now. 

Since Love no longer places his crown upon my 
brow? 

I have tasted its elixir, Its fire has through me 
flashed. 

But when the wine glowed brightest from my 
eager lip 'twas dashed. 

And I would give all Egypt but once to feel the 
bliss 

Which thrills through all my being whene'er I 
meet his kiss. 

The tempest loudly rages, my hair is wet with 
rain. 

But it does not still my longing, or cool my burn- 
ing pain. 

For Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of 
my soul 



138 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 

When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a 

queen's control. 
I fear not pale Octavia — that haughty Roman 

dame — 
My lion of the desert — my Antony can tame. 
I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid : 
The world holds not the woman of whom I am 

afraid. 
But I'm jealous of the rapture I tasted in his kiss, 
And would not that another should share with 

me that bliss. 
No joy would I deny him, let him cull it where he 

will. 
So mistress of his bosom is Cleopatra still : 
So that he feels for ever, when he Love's nectar 

sips, 
'Twas sweeter — sweeter — sweeter when tasted 

on my lips ; 
So that all other kisses, since he has drawn in 

mine," 
Shall be unto my lover as "water after wine/' 
Awhile let Csesar fancy Octavia's pallid charms, 
Can hold Rome's proudest consul a captive in her 

arms. 
Her cold embrace but brightens the memory of 

mine, 
And for my warm caresses he in her arms shall 

pine. 
'Twas not for love he sought her, but for her 

princely dower ; 
She brought him Caesar's friendship, she brought 

him kingly power. 



Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 139 

I should have bid him take her, had he my counsel 

sought. 
I've but to smile upon him and all her charms are 

nought ; 
For I would scorn to hold him by but a single 

hair, 
Save his own craving for me when I'm no longer 

there ; 
And I will show yon Roman, that for one kiss 

from me 
Wife — fame — and even honor to him shall noth- 
ing be ! 
Throw wide the window, Isis — fling perfumes 

o'er me now, 
And bind the Lotus blossoms again upon my brow. 
The rain has ceased its weeping, the driving 

storm is past, 
And calm are Nature's pulses that lately beat so 

fast. 
Gone is my jealous frenzy, and Eros reigns serene. 
The only god e'er worshiped by Egypt's haughty 

queen. 
With Antony — my lover — I'll kneel before his 

shrine 
Till the loves of Mars and Venus are nought to 

his and mine; 
And down through coming ages, in every land 

and tongue, 
With them shall Cleopatra and Antony be sung. 
Burn sandal-wood and cassia, let the vapor round 

me wreathe, 
And mingle with the incense the Lotus blossoms 

breathe. 



140 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 

Let India's spicy odors and Persia's perfumes 

rare 
Be wafted on the pinions of Egypt's fragrant air, 
With the sighing of the night breeze, the river's 

rippHng flow, 
Let me hear the notes of music in cadence soft 

and low. 
Draw round my couch its curtains ; I'd bathe my 

soul in sleep; 
I feel its gentle languor upon me slowly creep. 
O, let me cheat my senses with dreams of future 

bliss, 
In fancy feel his presence, in fancy taste his kiss, 
In fancy nestle closely against his throbbing heart, 
And throw my arms around him, no more — ^no 

more to part. 
Hush! hush! his spirit's pinions are rustling in 

my ears : 
He comes upon the tempest to calm my jealous 

fears ; 
He comes upon the tempest in answer to my call. 
Wife — fame — and even honor — for me he leaves 

them all ; 
And royally I'll welcome my lover to my side. 
I have won him — I have won him, from Caesar 

and his bride. 



Thanksgiving Psalm. I41 



THANKSGIVING PSALM. 

(Dedicated to the Philosophical Society of 
Chicago.) 

'The Earth is the Lord's, and the fullness thereof S 

At thy footstool, Great Jehovah, 

See a Nation lowly bends, 
While a Psalm of deep Thanksgiving 

From its grateful heart ascends. 

Thou art Wisdom, Strength and Power ; 

'Tis Thy Force alone creates; 
'Tis Thy Spirit all-pervading, 

Mother Nature animates. 

From her mighty womb, prolific, 
To Thy offspring she gives birth ; 

And we thank Thee, Great Jehovah, 
For the fullness of the Earth. 

Twas Thy Force that moved the water, 
And from darkness made the light. 

Gathered up the floating atoms. 
And the dry land brought to sight. 



142 Thanksgiving Psalm. 

From that Force, forever acting, 
All good things of Earth must flow, 

Mind and Matter both pervading; 
This — and only this — we know. 

Nature's changes Science teaches— 

Her creation is concealed; 
Great Jehovah's hidden secrets 

Unto Man are not revealed. 

But no less we thank and praise Thee; 

Call it Matter — call it Force — 
'Tis Thy Spirit, all pervading, 

That of Nature is the source. 
A. D. 1877. 



Resurgam. 143 



RESURGAM. 

Sung to the national air of Russia, May lo, 1878, 
on the occasion of the delivery of a memorial-day ad- 
dress, at New Berne, by Governor Vance. 

Rise, crowned with hope, O ! prostrate South, 

arise ! 
And from these graves lift up your streaming: 

eyes ; 
No longer mournful glances backward cast, 
No longer live within a buried past! 

Arise ! like Abram, put away your dead, 
The rough and thorny present calmly tread, 
And, with a heart that never knew disgrace. 
With steadfast look the unknown future face. 

As these met death, so bravely meet ye life, 
Cast from your soul the bitterness of strife. 
And bury deep in ''dust of old desires" 
Its still unquenched and slowly smouldering fires. 

Rise ! crowned with thorns and bleeding lift thy 

cross. 
Life brings no real gain without some loss, 
The battle o'er, a sentinel you stand, 
To guard the sacred freedom of our land. 



t44 Resurgam. 

Then watch ye well the sepulchre where lies 
A nation's buried hope, till it shall rise, 
And coming generations joyful see 
Our fatherland redeemed and free. 
May 10, 1878. 



Through Doubt to Light. 145 



/ 



THROUGH DOUBT TO LIGHT. 

This philosophic poem syllables the feeling of the 
doubter who wishes for light — of one who needs the 
charity of the Christian, and not his contumely — a 
charity rarely tendered — a contumely ready and un- 
sparing ! Left to his unbelief and sequent sufferings, 
he turns away from the fabric of belief commended to 
him, but rejected by his conscience, and determines to 
erect one of his own, founded upon the imperishable 
rock of axiomatic truths ; instead of the shifting sands 
of assumed verities, upon which was builded the fabric 
of belief he could not accept. 

This poem, and many of the following — all written 
in the latest twenty years of her life — are ethical in 
their character. It will be noted, in taking them as 
a whole, that while the authoress clung to the Faith 
of her Fathers, and her early teachings and associa- 
tions, as embodied in the Law and Gospel announced 
by the Nazarene ; she doubted, if she did not discard, 
the dogmas, creeds, and theologic views of those who 
vainly suppose that Law and Gospel is not clear and 
complete ; and requires to be explained and amended, 
under fallible human effort, and through the tortuouts 
devices of Divinity experts. 

I stood alone, the creeds to which 
My soul had always clung gave way, 

And round me surged a sea of doubt 
Whose restless waves I could not stay. 



146 Through Doubt to Light. 

Life lost its meaning, and the grave 
Seemed unto me the end of all. 

Goodness was nothing, and from heaven 
I feared that God himself must fall. 

Friends turned from me, and counsellors 
Upon my doubts could only frown. 

Was it the glare of hell I caught, 
Or light from heaven cast down? 

I could not tell, but soon I saw 

Old landmarks rise in that dark sea. 

If heaven must pass like some burnt scroll, 
This earth, at least, was left to me. 

If all religious truth was dead. 

Yet moral truth untouched might live; 

If there should be no other life, 

I'd have the best that this could give. 

"Better," I said, "is truth than lies, 
Better the generous than the mean, 

Better the brave than the coward act. 
Better the chaste than the unclean.*' 

My feet upon this rock I stayed, 

And slowly sank the waves of doubt: 

With fear and trembling thus it was 
I wrought my own salvation out. 

Creeds grew to me but empty husks 
On which I could not feed my soul. 

While moral and religious truth 
Blended in one harmonious whole. 



Through Doubt to Light. 147 

New faith in human nature rose 

From the broad, open sea of thought, 

As statues in the marble hid 

Are by the strokes of genius wrought. 

*Twas always there, — this glorious faith, — 
But cramped and hidden from my sight, 

Till, stroke by stroke. Doubt set it free, 
And suffering gave my soul new light. 



148 Under the Lava. 



UNDER THE LAVA. 

Original in conception — apt in comparison — this 
poem, in its consummate and unadorned beauty, com- 
mends itself to every subtile fancy and every sympa- 
thetic heart. 

Far down in the depths of my spirit, 

Out of the sight of man, 
Lies a buried Herculaneum, 

Whose secrets none may scan. 

No warning cloud of sorrow 
Casts its shadow o'er my way. 

No drifting shower of ashes 
Made of life a Pompeii. 

But a sudden tide of anguish 

Like molten lava rolled, 
And hardened, hardened, hardened. 

As its burning waves grew cold. 

Beneath it youth was buried, 
And love, and hope, and trust, 

And life unto me seemed nothing—- 
Nothing but ashes and dust. 



Under the Lava. 149 

Oh ! it was glorious ! glorious ! 

That Past, with its passionate glow. 
Its beautiful painted frescoes, 

Its statues white as snow. 

When I tasted Love's ambrosia, 

As it melted in a kiss, 
When I drank the wine of friendship. 

And believed in earthly bliss; 

When I breathed the rose's perfume, 
With lilies wreathed my hair, 

And moved to liquid music 
As it floated on the air — 

To me it was real — real, 

That passionate, bUssful joy 
Which grief may incrust with lava. 

But death alone can destroy. 

'Twas a life all bright and golden, 
Bright with the Hght of love; 

A Past still living, though buried 
With another life above — 

Another life built o'er it, 

With other love and friends, 
Which my spirit often leaveth. 

And into the past descends. 

Though buried deep in ashes 

Of burnt-out hope it lies, 
Under the hardened lava, 

From which it ne'er can rise, 



150 Under the Lava. 

It is no ruined city — 

No city of the dead — ' 

When in the midnight watches 
Its silent streets I tread. 

To me it changeth never; 

Buried in all its prime, 
Not fading, fading, fading, 

Under the touch of time. 

The beautiful frescoes painted 

By fancy still are there, 
With glowing tints unchanging 

Till brought to upper air. 

And many a graceful statue, 
In marble white as snow, 

Stands fair and all unbroken 
In that silent "long ago." 

It is not dead, but living, 
My glorious buried Past ! 

With its life of passionate beauty. 
Its joy too bright to last! 

But living under the lava — 
For the pictures fade away. 

And the statues crumble, crumble, 
When brought to the light of day; 

And like to dead-sea apples 

Is love's ambrosia now. 
And the lilies wither, wither, 

If I place them on my brow. 



Under the Lava. 151 

And so I keep them ever 

Far down in the depths of my heart, 
Under the lava and ashes, 

Things from my Hfe apart. 



152 The Crown Imperial. 



THE CROWN IMPERIAL 
A Legend of Northern Germany. 

Gentle reader ! uncover thy head, and breathe a si- 
lent prayer, for power to appreciate the beauty of this 
inspiration of a tenderness, born of "the wisdom which 
Cometh from above." 

"This rare and strange plant," writes Gerarde, "is 
called in Latine Corona Imperialis, and Lilium Byzan- 
tium. The floures grow on the top of the stalke, incom- 
passing it around in form of an Imperialle Crowne, 
hanging their heads downward as it were bels. In the 
bottom of each of these bels there is placed sixe drops 
of most clear shining sweet water, in taste like sugar, 
resembling in show faire orient pearles ; the which 
drops, if you take them away, there do immediately 
appear the like again." Tradition, that sweet deceiver, 
says that these tear-like drops did not exist in the 
Crown Imperial formerly. The flower was white — not 
of that peculiar dark, flesh color, deepened with blushes, 
as it now appears ; the "bels" stood upright, slightly 
protected by the emerald leaves above them. Thus it 
stood in full glory in the garden of Gethsemane, where 
our Saviour was wont to walk at sunset in silent medita- 
tion. — Notes and Queries. 

It was the hour the Saviour loved — 
That nuptial hour when day and night 

Together meet in close embrace, 
And with a silent kiss unite. 



The Crown Imperial. 153 

In mediation calm He walked, 
The Darkness stayed its lingering tread, 

And as He passed each loving flower 
In adoration bowed its head. 

The j as 'mine, scentless all the day. 
Now broke its box of spikenard sweet, 

And from its starry calices 

Poured spicy odors at His feet. 

All flowers a richer fragrance breathe 
Before Him as He silent walks, 

And shed the incense of their love 
Low bending on their slender stalks. 

All — save one stately lily fair — 

Which stood in conscious beauty's pride. 

With her majestic head unbent — 
Her silvery bells all open wide. 

Such beauty caught the Saviour's eye, 
He paused before the lovely flower, 

Spoke no reproof but silent gazed 
With tenderly persuasive power. 

She could not meet that loving glance, 
Her haughty pride before it fled, 

Deep blushes tinged her snowy bells 
And virgin shame bent down her head. 

The Saviour passed and darkness came. 
The dewful Twilight gently wept, 

The flowers their petals folded up 
And nestling 'mid their green leaves slept. 



154 The Crown Imperial. 

But when next morning they awoke 

And raised their heads to greet the light, 

They saw a Hngering blush still tinge 

The Crown Imperial's spotless white, 

Whilst every bell sweet pearly tears 
Of truly deep repentance shed; 

And never more in haughty pride 
Did this fair lily lift its head. 

And resting in the silvery bells 

Which hang around its crown of green, 

The pearly drops of sorrow still 

May with the blush of shame be seen. 



De Profundls. 155^ 



V 



DE PROFUNDIS. 

Lord, from our Southern Land^ 
In mercy lift Thy hand, 

Which presses sore; 
For through its borders wide, 
Fell pestilence doth stride, 
While famine by its side 

Knocks at each door. 

Lord, keep our hope alive, 
Give us the strength to strive 

Against this foe; 
Before Thy throne we kneel, 
O, Great Physician, heal 
The wounds 'neath which we reel 

And end this woe ! 

Aside our strife we lay, 

Both North and South, and pray 

*Thy will be done." 
And with one voice implore, 
That when this plague is o'er. 
We, as in days of yore, 

Be truly one. 
A. D. 1878. 



156 Truth. 



TRUTH. 

Oh ! mighty Power — primeval cause 
The unconditioned great "I am" I 

Conditioned Nature to Thee bows 
And chants an everlasting psalm. 

Unlimited in time and space, 

And all unshackled is Thy force, 

Unto Thyself Thou art a law, 

And of unchanging law the source. 

Before Infinitude like Thine, 

Man's finite mind grows dumb with awe, 
As he from age to age attempts 

To read the workings of Thy law. 

Thy crystal. Truth, has many sides. 
And light reflected shines from all. 

But on no single human mind 
Will its perfected radiance fall. 

Though clouds of dogma for a while, 
Its never-changing light may veil ; 

Behind them it forever shines. 

And o'er them will at length prevail. 



Truth. 157 

Lo! at its touch the Wind do see, 

The dumb do speak, the deaf do hear; 

Those dead in ignorance arise, 
Soon as its shadow doth appear. 

A noble feast it spreads for all, 

But yet is undiminished still; 
Twelve baskets full were gathered up. 

Though every one did eat his fill. 

These loaves and fishes typify 

That Truth which is dispensed for all 

In smallest fragments every where 
Will like the rays of sunlight fall. 

The finite mind may eat at will, 

Nor satisfy the hungry soul; 
Which ever crieth "Give, oh! give," 

But never can embrace the whole. 



158 Onward. 



ONWARD. 

"We cry onward ! to the heart that abandons the flesh- 
pots of falsehood, even for a wilderness where leads 
the pillar of truth — be it fire, be it cloud." — Conway. 

Onward! ye who seeking Truth, 
Put in her your perfect trust; 

Though the dogmas of the past. 
Crumble round you into dust. 

Saving faith is trust in truth; 

And the infidel is one 
Who believes her glorious work, 

Is by falsehood better done. 

Testing not by any fear, 

As to where her footsteps tend; 

Onward ! knowing in your hearts. 
Truth in evil cannot end. 

Ye can look on fair results, 
By the light of triumphs past; 

See the lions yet before, 
And the chains that bind them fast. 



Onward. 159 

Onward! seekers, onward press, 
Shades heroic round you stand; 

Whose fideHties have reared 

Unto knowledge temples grand. 

Truth has martyrs; Truth has saints. 
Who, while cowards clamor loud. 

Follow where her pillar leads; 
Be it fire, or be it cloud. 

Onward ! hearts that bravely leave, 
Falsehood's flesh-pots in the rear; 

E'en into the wilderness — 

Onward! ''fearing nought but fear." 



1 60 Exegesis. 



EXEGESIS. 

"Knowledge — it excites prejudice to call it Science- 
is advancing as irresistibly, as remorselessly, as majestic- 
ally, as the Ocean moved on King Canute's chair ; which 
represents traditional beliefs and moves backwards an 
inch at a time." — Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

Far back in the distant ages, 

The early days of Time, 
When the Prophets wrapt their teachings 

In parables sublime, 
And foretold the Kings of Tharsis 

Their presents should cast down; 
And Arabia bring her off'ring, 

A new-born babe to crown. 

The people heard them wond'ring. 
But their meaning did not see; 

For they fancied the Messiah 
An earthly prince should be. 

But when the Virgin Mother 

For all the tribes of earth, 
By the touch of man unsullied ; 

To her first-born child gave birth: 
The Priests and Levites scoffing. 

The truth would not believe, 
And though God-like were his teachings. 

The Christ would not receive. 

Every age repeats the story, 
And the people loudly cry: 



Exegesis. i6i 

"This man should not rule o'er us," 
While the Truth they crucify; 

But the touch of man unsullied, 
In the virgin womb of Time, 

'Tis brought unto perfection, 
In majesty sublime. 

And through the trackless region, 

The infinitude of space, 
Found stepping-stones where science, 

The universe might face ; 
And wrote its wondrous teachings. 

On Nature's mighty page; 
With which no man may tamper 

In this, or any age. 

As o'er the earth remorseless, 

The moving glacier crept; 
Truth — that's knowledge crystalized, — 

Adown the ages swept; 
It had no need to hasten, 

Its step though slow was sure; 
Infinite time behind it lay, 

Eternity before. 

Then oh ! ye men of Israel, 

Unto yourselves take heed; 
For if of man this counsel. 

It never can succeed ; 
But ye cannot overthrow it, 

Though the Truth ye crucify, 
If, haply, ye are fighting 

'Gainst the Lord of Hosts most High. 



1 62 What IS Religion? 



WHAT IS RELIGION? 

What is Religion, in whose name 
Such fearful deeds are wrought. 

And dogmas yet more fearful still 
Unto the spirit taught? 

*'It is the gift of God to man, 

And to none else beside, 
The breath of life unto his soul;" 

A sage to me replied. 

A yearning he alone can feel 

In weariness and grief, 
For something higher than the known; 

A refuge and relief. 

A yearning of that soul, to bridge 

The chasm which divides 
The known from the unknown, and read 

The secret which it hides. 

*Twas this that from the Psalmist's soul 
Brought forth the earnest cry, 

"Lead me, My God ! unto the rock 
That's higher still than I." 



What is Religion? 163 

Tis not devotion, worship, praise, 

The pious act or deed. 
Though these may be the flower or fruit 

That from its root proceed. 

And as the earth in eons past, 

Produced but ferns alone, 
That left the impress of their leaves 

Imbedded in the stone, 

So does religion in each age 
Express man's yearning needs. 

And leave an impress on the race 
Recorded in its deeds. 

Now rude and fierce with human blood 

Behold its altars reek, 
While fruit and flowers are offered by 

The beauty-loving Greek. 

Gotama and Confucius both. 

Like fern leaves in the coal, 
Ere Jesus came their impress left 

Upon the hum.an soul. 

*'The joys of life, e'en life itself," 

Loyola cries, 'T'll give 
Unto the holy Mother Church, 

And die that she may live.** 

But perfect Love, which casts out fear 

And raises and refines 
Life's conduct, is the living Truth 

The heart of man enshrines. 



164 What is Religion? 

Creeds, dogmas, fables, myths, and all 

Shall crumble and decay, 
But Love, the kernel, live when faith. 

The husk, has passed away. 

Then cast aside all fear, O soul. 

Religion cannot die: 
The good and true of every age 

The next shall purify. 



John Wesley's Foot-print. 165 



JOHN WESLEY'S FOOT-PRINT. 

The summer sun was shining bright 
On Epworth church one Sunday morn, 

When grand John Wesley humbly came 
Back, to the town where he was born. 

Back to its little parish church 
In singleness of heart he turned, 

To preach that all should practice, what 
Within its sacred walls he'd learned. 

A gathering crowd his steps attend, 
And soon the church's door they reach; 

Alas ! they found it shut and barred ; 
Within its walls he might not preach. 

The crowd, indignant, murmured loud, 
But Wesley only waved his hand; 

And turning to his father's grave, 
Upon the tomb-stone took his stand. 

"The church, my friends, is dark and cold, 
But warmed by God's own glorious sun, 

I'll from this pulpit preach so plain, 
That all may read e'en while they run." 



1 66 John Wesley^s Foot-print. 

'Twas nothing new he taught that day, 

But ah! its mem'ry Hngers yet, 
And Epworth shows upon that stone, 

The print where Wesley's foot was set. 

'Tis but a legend, yet it folds, 
Within its heart a lesson grand; 

That summer sun, that close shut door, 

The murmuring crowd that round it stand. 

For Wesley taught God's tender love 
Within no single church is barred, 

And left his foot-print on the age. 
If not upon that marble hard. 



He of Prayer. 167 



HE OF PRAYER. 

Hidden in the ancient Talmud 
Slumbereth this Legend old, 

By the stately Jewish Rabbis 
To the list'ning people told. 

Jacob's ladder still is standing 

And the angels o'er it go, 
Up and down from earth to heaven. 

Ever passing to and fro. 

Messengers from Great Jehovah 
Bringing mortals good or ill, 

Just as they from laws unchanging 
Good or evil shall distil. 

He of Death with brow majestic 
Cometh wreathed with asphodel. 

He of Life, with smile seraphic, 
Softly saying 'all is well.' 

He of Pain with purple pinions, 
He of Joy all shining bright, 

He of Hope with wings cerulian, 
He of Innocence all white. 



1 68 He of Prayer. 

And the rustling of their pinions 
With the falHng of their feet, 

Turneth into notes of music, 

Grand and solemn, soft and sweet. 

One — and only one stands ever 
On the ladder's topmost round, 

Just outside the gate celestial. 

Listening as to catch some sound. 

But it is not angel music 

Unto which he bends his ear; 

'Tis the passing prayer of mortals. 
That he ever waits to hear. 

By him messengers go flitting 
But he ever standeth there; 

For he is the great Sandalphon, 
Who is gathering every prayer. 

In his hand they turn to flowers. 
From whose cups a fragrance floats. 

Through the open gate celestial. 
Mingled with the angels' notes. 

For outside the golden portal 
Of that City of the skies. 

All the earthly dross and passion 
Of the prayer of mortal dies. 

'Tis the Heavenly essence only 
That can find an entrance there, 

Turned into the scent of flowers 
By Sandalphon — He of Prayer. 



The Highest Truth. 169 



THE HIGHEST TRUTH. 

A tribal God was Israel's God 

Inspiring only fear and awe, 
Who for His chosen moved alone, 

And wrought by will, instead of law. 
Long in this bondage were men held, 

And slowly through the desert came; 
At times were blinded by the smoke, 

And then were dazzled by the flame. 

But smoke and flame both passed away 

As age on age went rolling by; 
Until the Father of mankind, 

Was dimly seen by Reason's eye; 
A God who rules by law alone, 

A God in whom the soul may trust; 
For wilfully He cannot slay, 

And only does because He must. 

A God who is the inmost truth 

Of all and every thing that is, 
God of mankind, and Nature, too ; 

For every truth of hers is His. 
A God that reason ever seeks 

But yet presumes not to define ; 
A God who bids man trust all truth, 

May such a God, in truth, be mine. 



170 Matter. 



MATTER. 

"For 1 shall have to speak of the new faith in mat- 
ter, once and still so flouted and despised, now seen to 
be the haunt of mystery and the home of thought."-— 
Chadwick. 

What is this matter over which 

There rages theologic strife, 
'Gainst him who says that it contains 

'Tromise and potency of life?" 

Why is it scorned and flouted so? 

Why counted gross and low? 
If we beHeve apart from it, 

The mind can no existence know. 

If matter's indestructible. 

Why is it such a deadly sin 
To hold, that through eternity 

As now, it evermore has been? 

They're Truth's apostles, those who trace 

Its grand illimitable past; 
And read those laws which ne'er begun 

And through eternity must last. 



Matter. 17 1 

And they, whom some material call, 
View matter with most solemn awe; 

The womb of thought, of soul, of life, 
The haunt of mystery and of law. 

They may not know what law combines 
Matter and mind, body and soul. 

Nor how eternally it works. 

Producing one harmonious whole. 

'Tis but a part that they can see 

Of that eternal living mind 
Which dwells in nature, as the soul 

And body are in one combined. 

For how can one who's never known 
The sense of smell conceive its power? 

He cannot see, he cannot touch 
The perfume rising from a flower. 

Nor can the sense of man conceive 

Matter etherealized — refined. 
He cannot see, he cannot touch 

His life, his soul, his conscious mind. 

Then count me as a materialist 
When matter's potency I plead; 

And say it has eternal laws, 

Man's finite senses cannot read. 



172 The Prophet's Wonder Staff. 



THE PROPHET'S WONDER STAFF. 

A Legend of the Talmud. 

*'Gird up thy loins, Gehazi, and take my staff in 

hand, 
Nor tarry by the wayside, for death is in the land. 

"If any one shall meet thee salute him not, nor 

stay 
To answer any greeting that's given by the way. 

"Pause not, but hasten onward to do a work of 

grace, 
And lay the staff thou bearest upon the dead 

child's face; 

"Back to its earthly dwelling, when thou thy task 

hath done, 
Shall come the absent spirit of this my daughter's 

son." 

So spake the holy Prophet; his staff Gehazi 

seized. 
And sped upon his errand, right joyous and well 

pleased. 



The Prophet's Wonder Staff. 173 

Long had he sought to hold it — the Prophet's 

staff of power, 
"I too will work a wonder," he said, "on this 

very hour." 

"Good day to thee, Gehazi," cried Jehu by the 
way, 

"Pray whither art thou hast'ning so rapidly to- 
day?" 

"Nay, stop me not, good Jehu," Gehazi proudly 

said, 
"The Prophet's staff I carry, I go to raise the 

dead." 

Full of his own importance the servant sped 

along, 
While following quickly after there came a 

curious throng. 

Who clustering gather round him, like bees that 

seek a hive. 
As Jehu cries "Gehazi the dead will make alive." 

He seeks the Prophet's chamber, impatient of 

renown. 
Already hears in fancy the plaudits of the town. 

"Gehazi works a wonder, the Prophet does no 

more; 
Gehazi is a prophet — the dead he can restore." 



174 The Prophet's Wonder Staff. 

He lays the staff he carries upon the pale cold 

face, 
And watches for a signal that death to life gives 

place. 

The sleeping child awakes not, he turns the staff 

around, 
From left to right he lays it, but still is heard no 

sound. 

Ashamed, he stands confounded; no plaudits 

now he hears, 
But the hootings of the people, their laughter 

and their jeers; 

Back speeds he to the Prophet, "Your staff, O 

Master, take, 
It hath no virtue in it, the dead will not awake." 

His loins the Prophet girded and quick to 

Shunem sped. 
There, staff in hand, he enters the presence of 

the dead; 

The gaping crowd he scatters, then shuts the 

chamber door, 
And prays the Lord Jehovah the dead child to 

restore ; 

And then his living body on that cold form he 

lays. 
He breathes his life into it, and yet more fervent 

prays. 



The Prophet's Wonder Staff. 175 

By love so warm and earnest, called in Jehovah's 

name, 
The spirit hovering o'er it back to the body came. 

Self-seeking, vain Gehazi had failed to raise the 

dead; 
"Here, take thy child, O mother !" the grand old 

Prophet said. 

Not with his staff the wonder upon the dead he 

wrought, 
But by his prayers so humble, and his unselfish 

thought. 



176 The Magic Ring. 



THE MAGIC RING. 

From the German of Lessing. 

Among the treasures of an Eastern King 
Was, long ago, a magic opal ring. 
Which, rightly worn, the wondrous gift con- 
ferred 
To be by God beloved, by man preferred; 
Father to son the jewel handed down. 
The eldest always had it with the crown; 
At length a father three sons loved so well, 
Which one the best, himself he could not tell, 
And so he promised each of them apart, 
That he should have the treasure of his heart; 
And then, a craftsman calling to his aid. 
Two other rings in secret he had made; 
So like each other did the opals glow. 
Which was the first no mortal man could know. 
In secret then to each he gave a ring 
Just as he felt the flutter of Death's wing. 
He died — and each one of the brothers three 
Claimed that his ring the real gem must be; 
In fierce contention long did they dispute 
Then took them to a Judge of great repute. 



The Magic Ring. 177 

Before whom each one pleads the ring that's his 

Of all the three, the only true one is. 

He heard them all, then calmly did pronounce 

To magic charm each must all claim renounce; 

''For see," he said, "not one imparts 

The love of God or man unto your hearts; 

Else would ye not contend your ring alone 

Contains the only true and magic stone. 

Go now, your claim to God's exclusive love 

By piety and self-denial prove, 

If lives of love and charity ye live, 

A wiser one than I shall judgment give." 

Thus wrangles Christian, Turk and Jew, 

Each claims his creed — and only his — is true; 

He is the favored son of God most High. 

Why not by lives of self-denial try 

To prove that claim ? Nor ever wrangling stand ; 

Each holds a gem of truth within his hand; 

And if he rightly wears his wondrous ring, 

To him the love of God and man 'twill bring. 



178 Hermes' Ear. 



HERMES' EAR. 

'Twas half in sport, and half in spite. 

So myths Olympian say, 
That Zeus, the father of the gods. 

First moulded man of clay. 

He worked as gods alone can work. 
Till Juno's voice he hears, 

And then the image covered up 
Completed, but the ears. 

He closed the door, lest prying eyes 

His artist work should see, 
But as he hastened to the queen 

Forgot to turn the key. 

So Hermes, sauntering slowly by, 

Lifted the latch unbid, 
And curious, raised the moulding cloth. 

Whose folds the statue hid. 

"Aha !" he cried, "I'll finish this," 

And seized a curving shell, 
Whose depths the murmuring echo hid 

Of ocean's distant swell. 



Hermes* Ear. 179 

"I'll help the Thunderer make a man," 

In pert conceit he said, 
Then stuck the shell just where the ear 

Should be upon the head. 

But, ere a second he could place, 

The door flew open wide, 
Back to his work, impatient Zeus 

Returns from Juno's side. 

He boxed the boy, and turned him out, 

And laughed at his conceit. 
Yet left the shell until he could 

The other ear complete. 

'Tis scarcely done e'er Juno calls 

The god again away. 
And he returns to find the shell 

Fixed in the hardened clay. 

" 'Tis Juno's fault," in wrath he cries, 

"She always interferes. 
And man, the queen of Heaven may thank, 

For his imperfect ears. 

"The good the true, the beautiful 

He'll hear alone through me. 
Through Hermes' shell imperfect sounds 

From gossip's murmuring sea." 

And so it is, with Zeus' ear 

That man the truth discerns, 
"While evermore to gossip's voice 

The other one he turns. 



i8o The Law and the Gospel. 



THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 

Suggested by a sermon preached January i8, 1882, 
by the Rev. Mr. Shields. 

Reads the grand old law of Israel, 
'Love your neighbor, hate your foe" I 

But a grander, nobler teaching 
Does the Gospel to us show. 

Give to him who most maligns you, 
And whose heart is filled with hate, 

Tenderest consideration. 

With a love both sweet and great. 

Who is there that stands among us 
From all pain and sorrow free? 

None — Ah! none, although the suff'ring 
May unknown to others be. 

Grief, perchance, has made our brother 
Hard as was that desert stone. 

From which gushed the living water 
'Neath the prophet's urgent tone. 

In his anger he is bitter, 
Thinking us to him the same; 

Feeling that our loving kindness 
Is for him an empty name. 



The Law and the Gospel. i8i 

Bitter too, were Marah's waters, 
'Till the tree was in them thrown; 

And like them the heart is sweetened, 
By the flowers of love alone. 

Says tradition — sweet deceiver, — 
That the crimson fuchsia sprung. 

Of the blood of Jesus dropping 
As upon the cross He hung. 

Victim, He, of man's injustice. 
But his tender words were true; 

When He prayed for their forgiveness, 
"For they know not what they do.'' 

So, though word or deed of others 
Drops of life-blood from us wring; 

Let the flowers of blest affection 
E'en from black injustice spring. 

He — Humanity's grand Orpheus, — 
Struck the keynote of its heart; 

And the sympathy still swelling. 
From the earth shall not depart, 

'Till the brotherhood of Jesus, 
Shall pervade the human soul; 

And his words of meek forgiveness, 
Down the ages grandly roll. 



1 82 A Legend of St. Christopher. 



A LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER. 

Far back in the distant long ago 

Lies the fairy-land of Time ; 
When saints and angels walked this earth, 

And man was in his prime. 

Brave champions fought with sword and lance, 

Demons appearing then 
In shape of cruel monsters fierce, 

Instead of forms of men. 

And there were giants in those days 
Of wondrous strength and might; 

Who sometimes battled for the wrong 
And sometimes for the right. 

One Offero — the bearer — swore 

He only would obey 
The strongest man and mightiest prince, 

Who on this earth held sway. 

He sought him far, he sought him near. 

The quest was all in vain; 
For each the power of Satan feared, 

Lest he by it be slain. 



A Legend of St. Christopher. 183 

At length he reached a hermit's cell. 

Who told him Jesus' story ; 
And said that Satan's self must bow 

To Christ in all his glory. 

"Show me this Christ," cried Offero, 

"And tell me in what manner 
I may become his soldier true, 

And fight beneath his banner." 

"First you must fast," the hermit said, 
"Then many a prayer must say." 

"I will not fast," cried Offero, 
"And know not how to pray." 

"For if I fast my strength will go. 

And how then could I fight? 
I seek the service of a prince, 

Who'll use my strength aright/* 

"If you will neither fast nor pray, 

By yonder river stand ; 
For many struggle through the ford. 

Who need a helping hand." 

"That Is a service I can do," 

The giant joyful cried; 
And from its roots he tore a palm. 

His steps to stay and guide. 

And then he bent his back to work, 

And many a day thus spent; 
Aiding the weak and weary, who 

Across the river went. 



184 A Legend of St. Christopher. 

One stormy night he heard a cry, 
When wind and waves were wild ; 

And on the river's bank he found 
A waiHng Httle child. 

"Be of good cheer," said Offero, 

"I'll take you safely o'er ;" 
And on his back across the stream 

The little child he bore. 

Sore was the toil, the burden great, 

"Oh! why is this?" he said. 
"The whole world's sins," the child replied, 

"Are resting on my head." 

"Then you are he I long have sought," 

The giant hopeful cried, 
"For 'neath the weight you always bear 

I long ago had died." 

"None but a stronger man than I, 

IVe sworn I would obey; 
Then grant me this. Oh ! Leader Christ, 

And teach me how to pray." 

"There is no need," the Christ-child said, 

"For he who labors, prays ; 
And you in aiding fellow-men 

Are passing all your days. 

"And he prays best, who best doth work. 

In every way he can ; 
Without a single thought of self. 

To serve his fellow-man." 



A Legend of St. Christopher. 185 

And then he signed him with the cross, 

And said Thou shalt not be 
Offero; but Christoffero, 

Since thou hast carried me." 

The giant knelt, and humbly said, 

"Lord ! help me, lest I faint ;" 
And evermore toiled on for men. 

As Christopher the saint. 



1 86 The Happy Valley. 



J 



THE HAPPY VALLEY. 



In the heart of Carolina, by the Blue Ridge girded 

round, 
May the fabled Happy Valley of Rasselas be 

found ; 
By the rushing of the waters it was hollowed 

from the stone, 
When the earth was hot and molten ere a single 

plant had grown; 
And by the tramp of ages was slowly worn away, 
Till the breath of life came stealing down the 

canon bare and gray, 
Then Nature threw her mantle o'er the moun- 
tain's rugged side, 
And smiled upon the valley, till with laughter 

it replied : 
And she said, 'Til make a garden in the hollow 

of my hand. 
With the water racing round it, like a sparkling 

jeweled band. 
Here summer's heat I'll temper, and lighten 

winter's snow. 
While from the earth forever shall healing 

waters flow." 



The Happy Valley. 187 

Right royally the mother has kept her gracious 
word, 

For the laughter of the waters in the vale is 
always heard ; 

Vyhile a 'broidery of flowers, the loveliest ever 
seen 

Casts the colors of the rainbow o'er her robe of 
living green. 

On the grass she threw her sceptre, and the 
golden-rod upsprung, 

While a drapery of creepers o'er each preci- 
pice she hung; 

Where in autumn like gay banners on battlements 
of old, 

From her fortress they are streaming in crim- 
son and in gold. 

Here the laurel and the ivy spread their cups of 
pink and white, 

And the scarlet trumpet-flower turns its clusters 
to the light, 

While the oxydendrum's waving o'er the maiden- 
hair below. 

And the black-haw's opal berries in the sunlight 
changeful glow. 

And she stooped and whispered softly in the 
red-man's list'ning ear 

The secret of the valley, and its waters warm 
and clear ; 

And she told him they were flowing from her 
heart so warm and true, 

With a wondrous gift of healing and lost vigor 
to renew. 



1 88 The Happy Valley. 

And she bade him wall the hollow from which 

they freely welled 
With giant logs of locust from her fertile 

bosom felled ; 
And thus the white man found it a hundred years 

ago, 
When he followed Tahkeeostee in its sinuous 

racing flow ; 
As it winds among the mountains a vein from 

Nature's heart, 
And clasps this Happy Valley unwilling to 

depart. 
Warm Springs, N. C, August i, 1882. 



Thoughts. ;i89 



THOUGHTS. 

Caught on the wing between Warm Springs and 
Alexander's (N. C), October 14, 1882. 

The night is done, and the darkness 

Floats like a cloud away ; 
While the wondrous blaze of the comet 

Dies in the glare of day; 

And now on the rugged mountains 

I see the sunrise glow, 
And catch at their base the sparkle 

Of Tahkeeostee's flow; 

While through the cloudy curtain 

Its censer-waves uprolled 
Shines a glow of green and crimson, 

A gleam of autumn's gold. 

And the works of man seem nothing, 

Amid these gorges grand, 
To the wonders wrought by Nature, 

The pictures from her hand. 

Yet oft o'er the grand old mother, 

A victory he'll gain ; 
For he is the child of her bosom, 

Her noblest work his brain. 



190 Thoughts. 

He's her youngest born, and she lets him 
In her fond indulgence rule; 

Till he fancies he's the master. 
She the obedient tool. 

For she lends him all her powers. 
As he's playing at her feet; 

And smiles at his puny efforts, 
With the mother to compete. 

She opens her volume for him, 
With pictures grand and true; 

Which, dating from eternity, 
Eternally is new. 

And she whispers secrets to him, 

And teaches all he learns; 
Though oft 'gainst the face of the mother 

The weapon she gave, he turns. 

For he knows she still is hiding. 

Secrets she ne'er has told; 
And age on age he's striven 

Life's mystery to unfold. 

But when he stands in the presence 
Of these mountains grand and wild. 

He feels she indeed is the mother. 
He, but the ignorant child. 



The Heart of Jesus. 191 



THE HEART OF JESUS. 

In the dim twilight which betokened the long night 
of death at hand, the poet's clear vision recognized 
the Heart of Jesus; and with a strength not of this 
world, her last efifort was to reach it! 

Embalmed and closed in silver case 

The heart of Bruce Lord Douglas bore, 

And when the Panym round him pressed 
He tossed the casket far before. 

"In life," he cried, "you always led, 
While Douglas followed close behind; 

Go foremost still — I'll cut my way 
The sacred heart of Bruce to find." 

The heart of Jesus ! sacred heart ! 

ril follow wheresoe'er it leads ; 
Not dead, like Douglas' heart of Bruce; 

For all mankind alike it bleeds. 

No single church in silver case 
Enclosed the heart of Jesus holds ; 

That generous heart, that loving heart, 
Humanity divine enfolds. 

But like the Douglas we must cut 

Our way through foes that heart to find, 

And feel that God so loved this world 
He gave his heart for all mankind. 



19^ Dux Foemina Facti. 



/ 



V 






DUX FOEMINA FACT 

The following tribute to the cause she loved so well, 
was the last poem ever written by Mrs. Clarke, and 
was read by her son, William ^ Clarke, on May lo, 
1885, on the unveiling of the statue of a Confederate 
soldier, erected by the Ladies of the Memorial Asso- 
ciation of New Berne. 

The patriotic devotion of Marmion that rose supe- 
rior to his death-agony in the battle and prompted his 
cry: 

" — Yet my last thought is England's," 

is not of more heroic mould than the love of country, 
which, like a cloudless sunset, gilded and adorned the 
slowly ebbing flood of her life-tide, as it was yielding 
to eternity its own, 

"On Fame's eternal camping ground" 
A sentinel now takes his stand, 

To guard his comrades' dreamless sleep 
Until relieved by Time's command. 

But — though this soldier carved in stone 
May slowly crumble and decay, — 

For "earth to earth and dust to dust" 
Material things all pass away: 



Dux Foemina Facti. 193 

Yet, Love, like Truth, can never die ; 

And 'graved on Time's historic page, 
The memory of our soldiers' deeds 

Shall live undimmed from age to age. 

By woman's hand 'tis written there, 
"Our dead shall live," she said, 

And placed her sentinel above 

The grave of the Confederate dead. 

Stand there, O effigy in stone! 

To guard 'gainst time's corroding dust 
The sacred mem'ries of the past 

Confided to your silent trust. 



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"This ought to be an immensely popular book. 
There are no idle moments from cover to cover, 
and it is one which the reader will not think of 
laying aside until he has read every word." 



Under the Darkness of the 
Night 

A Tale of West Indian Insurrection. 

By Ellen Chazal Chapeau. 
Cloth, i2mo. Attractively Produced. 
Price, $1.00. 
The scenes of this story are laid in Ste. 
Domingue from 1792-93. It is a most timely 
book, written by one whose life has been passed 
among West Indians, and who can read the 
African character with surprising skill and ac- 
curacy. A wonderful picture of tropical life, 
brilliantly depicted. 

Broadway Publishing: Company, 

836 Broadway, New York. 



BOOKS YOU NVST READ 
SOONEK OR. LATER 

J^o Surrender, 

By John N. Swift and William S. Birge, M.D. 

Cloth, i2mo. Frontispiece. Price, $1.50 

From the moment this story opens in the old 
whaling station of New Bedford, mitil the climax 
of climaxes is reached in the high seas some- 
where off the coast of Chile, excitement and in- 
terest are in order. It is a tale that allows of 
no laying aside and as incident comes crowding 
upon incident the reader finds himself utterly 
oblivious to everything but the words before 
him. 

Imagine, if you can, the consternation of the 
Chilean commander and his officers of the cruiser 
"Dona Inez" when, on their arrival at the land- 
ing stage, ready to embark after an hour's shore 
leave, they find the ship, which they had left 
safely swinging at her moorings, completely 
vanished. 

Such a statement is enough to arouse im- 
mediate curiosity and what became of the "Dona" 
and what became of the Chilean commander and 
his officers forms the plot of this most extra- 
ordinary narrative. 

Of course the "Dona" has been skilfully pur- 
loined for felonious purposes, and while she and 
her piratical crew are undergoing all manner of 
marine castastrophe one of the former officers 
is dashing overland to head off if possible dis- 
agreeable contingencies with the Chilean Naval 
Department. His adventures are not less thril- 
ling than those which befall the ship, and the 
clever chapter arrangement keeps the reader's 
interest ever whetted. 

Broadway Publishing Company, 

835 Broadway, New York. 



BOOKS YOU MUST READ 
SOONER OR LATER 

Reuben: His Book 

By AIorton H. Pemberton. 

Cloth, Gilt lettering, i2nio. Postpaid, $i.oo. 
Portrait in Colors. 

One of the funniest, cleverest, uniquest volumes 
of the day, it has won spontaneous and unani- 
mous approval from reviewers the country over. 

Just hear what a few of them say : 

Champ Clark. — "I haven't laughed so much 
since I first read Mark Twain's 'Roughing It.' " 

Globe-Democrat. — "This little book has the 
merit of brevity, variety and humor. It is safe 
to say that the book will have many readers and 
that it will afford much amusement." 

St. Louis Republic. — "The book is already 
heading the list of 'best sellers,' and deserves to 
go. It is GOOD. It is the sort of thing which 
might move the provincial journalist to say, 
'Reub, here's our hand.' " 



M Scarlet 'Repentance 

By Archie Bell. 
Cloth, i2mo. Price, $i.oo. 

One Review: "The history of one night and 
one day's flaming passion between a beauti- 
ful Italian woman and a handsome youth — 
strangers — who meet upon a Pullman car. 
There comes into the story all the elementary 
passions, hatred, jealousy, desire and — sorrow. 

"It is a story that will appeal to those who 
prefer novels in which red blood is throbbing 
madly. It is not for prudes, nor for parsons, 
nor poseurs. It's a book for men and women 
who have lived." — The Club-Fellow. 

Btoadway Publishing: Company, 

835 Broadway, New York. 



